


What Dread Hand

by londonfalling



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Sex, Brother/Brother Incest, Canon Universe, Codependency, Developing Relationship, Drama, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Incest, Insecurity, Light Bondage, M/M, Miscommunication, Porn with Feelings, Possessive Behavior, Post-Canon, Prompt Fill, Sexual Content, Sharing Clothes, Sibling Incest, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 16:49:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 27,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28300404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/londonfalling/pseuds/londonfalling
Summary: How to stop Vergil from stealing your clothes:Step 1 – you don't. Quit while you're ahead.Or: two different ways to approach an identical problem. (5V / 5D)
Relationships: Dante/Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 34
Kudos: 69





	1. i. Deeps

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Amehika](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amehika/gifts).



> Happy holidays, io Saturnalia!
> 
> This is based on a prompt to write something fluffy that also includes the following lines:  
> "I just read a love letter addressed to me. This has got to be a prank."  
> and  
> "This is the last time I'll ask to borrow something of yours."
> 
> I wrote it as a single-chapter story and it still makes more sense like that, but the word count simply got too high in the end – even chapter 1 was too long, had to split it in two. 3 and 4 are done too, just makes more sense to do the updates partly in parts. Can't blame the prompt / Twitter for the mess getting out of hand. Anyway.

"Good morning," Vergil says pleasantly from somewhere on the right. Takes a while after waking up for spatial awareness to kick in, so Dante devotes the first few moments just to the voice, which his flickering consciousness may or may not find more important a task than locating his own flesh prison anyway. Hnn, Vergil's voice. It's nice for the first, the tone, suspiciously so. Unlike people who spend their time in bed on slumber or having sex, brother dear did none of that during the night and is thus lacking all kinds of bleary-eyed raspiness and shortness of breath too. Learning how to read him will never not be a work in progress when he's so committed to keeping some facets concealed, but Dante's gotten better at his inflections over the years, has noticed how the way he speaks gives away his exhaustion. Like this: Vergil's pitch gets more high-strung as the tension rises towards the apex of Temen-ni-gru, literal or imaginary, and when his pitch-black lost hope pours out of him as fluently as the bright arterial blood that Rebellion draws out of his esophagus, it dives nearly an octave, pulls him to lower registers before disintegrating on the last syllables, _was our father's home_. Parenthetically, the timbre gets similar to that when it's Dante himself pushing inside his worn throat, threadbare and spent and low. Hm. Morning, world – another day of obsessing about his twin, the past or both has clearly begun.

He shivers when the voice calls his name next, lilting as flexibly as water would when thrown coldly at his face. Not fatigued in the least, no. In fact, the Vergil of today sounds way too chipper for a guy whose idea of showing affection is stomping his paramour to the curb. Because he's somehow very invested in their relationship, though, the stomping happens repeatedly instead of, you know, being a one-time lethal thing, the treatment he gives to his adversaries or irrelevant cannon fodder. Shows he cares. Anyways, cheerfulness at an ungodly hour, great, Dante thinks while rolling over to face the embodiment of his headache. On any other timeline, this kind of behavior would be setting off all kinds of alarms: for christ's sake, the jerk is even flipping his book closed to show he's paying attention before Dante can blink away the drowsy crap clinging to the corners of his eyes and make out what he's been reading. Since his literary hobbies have led to such not-exactly-minor incidents as reactivating the unholy Babel, maybe, just maybe he ought to be focusing on that.

Since Dante's brain consists of a merry little choir of singing toads, the first thing he really gives a damn about is the shirt. Green, used to be a mossy shade but has waned into a washed-out hue that'd be right at home on the shores of Vie de Marli, clashes with the hereditary Sparda colors like a Zweihänder in the eye. Probably some wool in the mix but not the fancy cashmere type. The fabric flows down Vergil's shoulders and bunches up around his pointy elbows, and the sleeves are long enough only because they're so tatty, having entered the territory of being past their prime about five years ago already. The ends of his collar bones peek from beneath the overtly generous neckline; if Dante's mouth wasn't so dry from the dozing and if sleep didn't still have its spindly fingers pressed on and underneath his scalp, pulling the skin between his temples uncomfortably tight, he might be a little appreciative of the sight despite himself. Alas. This display is not a good thing, like Vergil trying to seduce him at the crack of dawn, oh no. His stuck-up sibling wearing such immodest garb is not an offer or evidence of him abandoning his Victorian morals because of one simple factor: it's not his clothing. Dante remembers buying the thing like it was yesterday. For himself. His shirt, Dante's, on his stupid impossible brother.

Again. Dante turns his head and groans into the pillow. Goddamnit. It's not like he expected anything else, rationally. Whatever Vergil's up to when he doesn't feel like sleeping is his own business, and who knows, he could've stayed by Dante's side the entire time like an obedient pet in vigil or a grumpy kid that's stubbornly keeping awake just to prove a point, whatever. What he _wouldn't_ do, based on game they've been playing since his resurrection, is changing into the pajama set Dante got him last Friday, the feather-soft top and pair of pants he tossed onto his desk to remind him of their existence yesterday. Another shot gone wide. The problem with a war of attrition is the fact you can tire yourself out before your opponent even notices you're doing it.

The mattress shifts. Vergil stands up, then stretches his unnecessarily long limbs like he's had good rest, and Dante's glad he's not looking because he's cranky, close to throwing a tantrum, not really in the mood to have a morning wood. The vocalization the bastard makes at the back of his windpipe – a milder, mellow version of the groan he allows himself when Dante's body has swallowed him up whole or he's coming inside it, the picture of smug satisfaction – kind of doesn't help at all. Brrh. The bedcovers join his sigh as he grinds his hips against them without meaning to. Not now, lil Dante, he's busy being irritated.

Vergil's stare feels a bit prickly on the back of his cranium, but his speech remains breezy: "Now that you have wasted an entire night sleeping again, I trust you are up to a practice match. You need it, your footwork is not going to improve itself on its own."

"Is too early, go away," Dante replies from his cocoon. Would you look at that, almost a better comeback than the _I'll show you footwork_ his toads propose. The connection between them and his mouth is apparently still out of commission. Too early indeed. He doesn't know about Vergil here, but carbon-based lifeforms require certain amount of leisure, whether or not they have enough devilish durability to run on mere fumes when a plain vanilla mortal would have already dropped dead miles ago.

"It is half past six and we went to bed at eleven. Are you getting old? I cannot see why else a demon would need to sleep thrice within a week," Vergil presses. Ah, of course that's what he's after. If their roughhousing didn't involve so many tricks meant for adult audiences only, Dante would accuse him of being childish in his enthusiasm for it. Almost wouldn't surprise him if he decided to shove him off the bed, chanting _allez, allez_ at his prone, faceplanted form until he got his way. But Vergil is a grownup and can handle rejection like one. Aye, Dante enjoys the brawling. No, he's not thrilled to accept the invitation when it's made before seven a.m. and in his togs. Not that difficult to understand, is it?

"If I say yes and let you gloat, will you let me snooze in peace? Besides; if I'm senile, what does that say about my elders, o brother – you're older than me by several hours, you remind me about it every two seconds."

"Indeed I am, but I also look younger. It's all this sleeping, it ages you. Get up, Dante, you can lie on your oars after I have cut you down."

Sod him for not conceding a valid point. The arguing's already ruined his chances of falling asleep, so thanks for nothing.

"No. Fuck you."

There's a slight change in the tune, more conciliatory now. Beats him how he's able to detect it through the bedcover he's been pulling over his head for the past few minutes; very kind of evolution to give him a sixth sense for bullshit.

What Vergil tries to tempt him with is a prime example of bs, no denying that: "Are you certain? If you would prefer to postpone the lesson, we could even test the devil arms you acquired last week and make it close combat." Verboten, a foul and a thoroughly illegal move, a black card offence against good sportsmanship. Rules of combat explicitly prohibit bribery, thus appealing to the side of Dante that fancies agility constitutes deliberate brutality. In all fairness, you can't call Vergil the swordsman stiff by any stretch of imagination, yet there's something special about the attractive splits the likes of Beowulf can coax out of him, and the snake's much too aware of it. Watch how well-behaved Dante is in contrast, resisting the urge to craft puns about stiffies. Hah. Ha. This is going to be a long day.

Vergil narrows his eyes audibly at the _screw you_ he gets as a reply; doesn't bode well. When he mentions he's up one, sotto voce, iron creeping into his dulcet tones, and makes a casual reference to an occasion when Dante may have misspoken and promised to do him a favor while being subjected to cruel and unusual punishments ( _please, Vergil, you have to, you h-have to let me come, fuck, please, you're killing me, shit, nn, Ver-, Vergil_ ), Dante flings one of the pillows at him to make him stop yapping, geez. Talkativeness isn't always a positive with him.

"Change your threads first, I can't fight you if you look like a hobo. I'll feel bad for mauling a homeless person or get confused and think I'm trading blows with an alter ego," he mutters into the pillow that's not lying in the corner of the room now, having missed the target. The case smells of Vergil. Everything smells like him these days, and Dante sensed himself on him too until the two scents blended into one another, which is the same to him than everything smelling just like Vergil alone because telling the difference is no longer possible. It's maddening, mainly due to the fact he doesn't mind it all that much, what feels like a subtle mutual claim.

"Funny how I never have that problem, feeling bad for my actions," Vergil responds, noncommittal as ever. Roger that; there are two murderous nutjobs in this household, but only one of them tries to pretend he possesses a modicum empathy. Then again, if the logics behind the saying _clothes make the man_ are sound, Vergil truly is an alter ego of Dante since his rags are all he wears nowadays. Huh.

As if on cue, Dante mark II, new and improved from the pre-existing model with his clean-shaven cheeks and extra dimples, gets them back in square one with one well-placed jab. "Does that plum-red sweatshirt of yours still need washing?" Vergil asks.

His fucking shirt, again! So much for his bargaining. Dante's groan is far less content than Vergil's tour de force a few minutes ago, though it picks up the slack in general emotion. Frustration. Resignation. Despondent, abject misery. The sound gets lost in the feathers or whatever the cushions are stuffed with, cotton wool wadding, peas, fiberglass, at any rate; Vergil doesn't hear it. Vergil doesn't hear a lot of things.

––

Vergil does give him a beating half an hour later, then gets snappish because the fight and his resulting victory aren't paid the respect they allegedly deserve. Dante dusts himself off and disregards the icy glances directed at him for the rest of the day to the best of his ability. He's… distracted.

––

By the point Dante realizes they have run into a snag, things have been snowballing down the hill for a while already. The ball of yarn can most likely be traced all the way back to their formative years – when has the past not been the chief cause for their dysfunctionality of today, really –, but that only matters to academics who are more intrigued by the whys and hows than solutions. Nah, he's scouring for an out here, preferably one that'd let them avoid a rerun of their childhood fate. Sure could use help in that, but rather than merely be his usual unhelpful self, Vergil is actually a big, active part of the problem, which brings about certain complications. Now that everything should be fine and when nothing bad is happening, the ground under Dante has turned unstable. He's ungrateful for considering this a crisis, unthankful at heart, for thinking their coexistence paints a panorama of horror. Stress, it's been stressing him out. Pathetic. Might help to be more forthright about it, just a thought. Eva always warned him nobody but big brother would understand him if he _didn't use his words, Dante_. Maybe if he spoke --

Maybe an abridged version of the story is in order.

See, Dante's a jovial fellow, always ready to skate over all kinds of transgressions in favor of avoiding conflicts. "Generous", to be frank, is not a word anyone uses to describe him if they have been interacting with him longer than a handful of seconds and notice him pocketing anything that's not bolted down, his infamously sticky fingers. The point stands that he's conversely been lax about boundaries when it comes to his personal property, barring his twin and everything related to him. Someone he's just met on the top of a giant cursed tower wants to hang around his shop despite trying to blow his head off not long ago, repeatedly? Sure, be his quest. A diabolical facsimile of his late mother, handcrafted by the hellion king his kin has sworn blood revenge against, takes an interest in psychology, borrows his books and forgets to return them? She can knock herself out; here, might as well take his best shotgun while at it. Client is strapped for cash and asks if he could pay for the toil by giving him a houseplant that's dropping leaves all over the floor even before he gets to properly neglecting the poor shrub by not remembering to water it? Jesus, Dante's such a doormat, that was a lousy trade in hindsight, but yes, don't mind if he do. One beautiful day, someone will buy his advertising slogan, believe he's _running a business, not a charity_ , and pay him a living wage for his troubles.

He digresses. The moral of the story in any case: Dante doesn't give a fuck about most things and the things he owns aren't an exception. Vergil can be a cheapskate, eat his food, wear out his mattresses and bum his smokes if it pleases him, especially when seeing him with a cigarette hanging on his lips like a snide comment or twirling it around his fingers happens to please Dante in turn. Aesthetically, that's all, not that he pushes him away when he leans closer with nicotine laced into his saliva, breathing smoke into his lungs. For him, everything's free, and Dante only writes his name on his belongings so that Vergil won't forget he's one of them. His as well, freely given.

(Dante could maybe, probably, possibly even share the alcohol with him; if that right there isn't true love, he doesn't know what is. But Vergil doesn't drink, most likely flinches at the thought their mother's weaknesses could apply to him, or remembers how her cloudy eyes would strip her face from all emotion during the worse periods in her melancholia. Dante remembers too, every time he looks inside a glass full of amber, yet he isn't above her vices when it comes to coping. What Vergil doesn't get about her – her ability to hide the fact she had a problem had been inhuman through and through.)

That said, the line's got to be drawn at stealing clothes. Some eccentricity Dante has even anticipated, what are sons of Sparda if not odd? Sort of makes sense that a person would cultivate peculiar habits after decades of separation from their family, being dead or at least being several other people for a while, regenerating with his sixth?, seventh? facial setup, too. Some of the idiosyncrasies are endearing or strangely wholesome. Some Dante can brush off with a shrug: no way to tell how the manner's come into being, but it seems harmless enough. Some ticks drive him up the wall, but they tend to be the ones that date back to their boyhood. Had to deal those quirks with since the bane of his existence resurfaced in Red Grave, failed to kill either of them and followed him home for the lack of anything else to do, nothing new under the sun. Leopards of their caliber don't change their spots; being more biblical with one another than most siblings doesn't negate any of the sibling rivalry and the annoyances affiliated with it. Since they've developed Stockholm syndrome for any semblance of normalcy, the regular stuff they annoy each other with is fine and dandy. This isn't.

The long and short of it: the clothing thievery feels relatively minor at first too, outright innocuous. Dante expects them to exchange a little banter about it, share a laugh or two and reminisce the brief phase at a later date. Hey, raising yourself from the grave you've been inhabiting for several decennia by splitting your being into two might not conjure up a well-endowed wardrobe as a byproduct, needs must, he gets it. The foolish assumption gets proven wrong a trillion times over when no amount of soft-soaping and nagging will get his brother to stop donning pilfered apparel, and presto, they've entered hell on earth.

Throws him off; would've bet on Vergil, with his regal posture and knack for finding details to complain about in anything, being fussy about the style of his outfits, the aesthetics. 'S what he was like as a kiddo as well. Couldn't they just go back to being color-coded for convenience now that the dust has settled and he's made himself at home? He has his allowance, time, reasons for shopping – his present-day proportions are so unrealistic, mostly extremities, that Dante's vestments fit him like olives do pizza. Visualize a stick inside a roomy paper bag, then hold the said stick above your head so that it towers above everyone else. Ludicrous. It's got to stop.

When it doesn't stop by itself and seems to be getting worse, Dante gets anxiety. Could be that he's supposed to embrace this brand of intimacy, enjoy the view, get turned on by it. He's unhappy, however, and the titillation isn't worth the discomfort. What to do? There's always being direct, but he knows his brother well enough not to get his hopes up. They'll come down about as hard as a body thrown off the top of Temen-ni-gru, and he's speaking from experience when he states that's crashing rough; the failure to reach your goals is sad, but what smarts more is the fact you've been betrayed. Desperation, as always, has him caving in nonetheless. One noon, he corners Vergil in the office, bracing himself for impact.

"Stop stealing my clothes," he says.

His twin takes his time to finish the column he's underlining with a fountain pen, sets the codex aside with gentle care and a placating pat, before looking at him blankly. It's the unnerving kind of blank: devoid of a soul that could be reached by any means at his disposal.

"Why?" Vergil says. Probably considers his calm, unassuming tone reasonable.

See? This is why you can't have an adult conversation with him – he does ridiculous things like asking Dante to explain himself. Dante doesn't do that, it's detrimental to his fragile mental hygiene as well as the common benefit of the society at large, everyone knows it.

Wilting in despair, he tries to find something safe to rest his eyes on. The plant, placed behind his desk as a cautionary example of bum deals, is looking pretty brown around the gills these days. Dante emphasizes. Nothing to do but forfeit.

"Forget it, whatever, you wanna to kick my ass or something?"

Turns out he does. Afterwards, Dante's lying on the cold dirt, the sky bending above him as a radiant rainless blue. Alone. Probably not in the right frame of mind to jack off al fresco. Damn it, he misses post-clash coupling, what's the last time they did that? Nothing's wrong. Everything is. Not for a moment does he actually sit down and analyze why the looting bothers him to the degree he's slowly losing his marbles, feeling them roll out of his ear one by one, clink clink clink to the floor, until he's left with a roaring resonant sound box of a skull; maybe he doesn't have to. Maybe he knows and simply prefers to keep it out of his sight since knowing shit has never helped him any. Case in point: he'd been able to foretell the outcome of his candid request, and it merely adds to his torment instead of lessening it.

Vergil's not cooperating, hence it's up to Dante to find a remedy. All it means is they're already doomed. An upside, though; when the end comes, it won't be a surprise for once.

Righto. Got to get up, rain or shine. Put out a token effort to pull the brakes.

––

So, Vergil refuses to waste his time on tracking down a garderobe? Fine, whatever, be lazy, Dante will do it for him as if he were the responsible firstborn. Armed with his credit card and faked wild optimism, he hits the downtown, spends his monthly booze budget on duds. What does his twin like, what would he wear if he didn't have access to the services of a dressmaker? Something chaste, dark, fifty shades of blue, flashy details and heavy materials, layers. Sounds about right. So he dives into the racks, trying to think like a stuffy prig and guesstimating the measurements he's grown overtly familiar with. A bunch of simple white T-shirts made of decent-quality cotton. A merino wool pullover in indigo. Basic black jerseys, washed silk fashioned into a crisp shirt, a leather belt, just as a suggestion, the shmuck could start giving a hoot about accessories and underwear. He has more paper bags than his wallet has holes when he returns, but while Vergil sees him haul them inside, he asks no questions from the alcove he's retreated to. He doesn't do that even when Dante thrusts one parcel at him and tells it's a present; a blink, a rehearsed _thank you_ , a flip of a page of the tome he's buried his beak into. Seems to be, Dante squints, about seafaring and shipwrecks today. Not the greatest of omens. Nevertheless, he hustles and bustles about until everything's unpacked, moderately pleased with his efforts as he drifts off to dreamland that night.

Come morning, it's Vergil's turn to putter around the house in his quest to find free counter space for the parchment scrolls he's studying. He's recently had a bath – Dante was there and distantly remembers them washing up even if the memory of his brother on his tongue, the salty kisses pressed on swollen lips, takes a certain precedence – and changed clothes in the sense that he's shucked off his darned coat, but Dante recognizes his undershirt from his early mercenary days. Oh, thought he threw most of Tony's gear away decades ago. He gives the tit a few moons and a few more chances to switch into the gifted equipment in spite of his confidence faltering already. As much as Vergil reminds him of quicksilver on the battleground, in other things he's slow, takes him forever to make the informed choices that allow him to always go with the absolute worst option with full intent. Patience isn't Dante's forte and he sure as hell doesn't do pets, animals in general, not even kids, but it occurs to him adjustments might take time for a creature of habit. Maybe Vergil is a cat when it comes to new objects in his habitat, suspicious; he has to get used to the weird smells and make sure he won't get bitten.

When any progress doesn't happen on its own, Dante begins experimenting with the delivery methods, and soon, there are piles of clothes everywhere around _DMC_. Some he wraps up with paper and bows, some he merely labels _Vergil's_ or _to_ _Vergil_ or whatever synonym he happens to find appropriate in the moment, _to Fuckface_ and what have you. Others he just leaves in the nooks his sibling tends to haunt or slips them into the cabins where he keeps his earthly possessions, which mainly comprise of ancient notebooks, ink, pumice and the curious Japanese sword maintenance sets that serve no evident purpose when Yamato is perfectly capable of taking care of herself. Eventually, each acquisition finds its way into Dante's personal storage, creased into squares with Vergil's trademark precision. It does occur to him he could simply ask why the pieces don't pass the muster, but by now it's becoming obvious the aim is merely to be a nuisance.

To test this theory out more conclusively, Dante obtains a perfectly nice purple turtleneck, the kind that only looks good on svelte twiggy pretty boys. He should know, he used to be one before his blues changed colors, making him buff and fond of flattering décolletages; for a masochist with depression, grueling exercise routines are actually better at keeping the traumas at bay than, say, lying on the floor pickling one's liver and not eating, his dearest pursuit between ages sixteen and thirty or so. Vergil, by no mean a waif but relatively slim regardless, is lean enough to carry the garment, though, has worn similar attire in the past. Dante even adds an inscription on a slip he attached to it: _Thought this would look good on you, the shade suits your eyes. Please try it on at least? Might have a reward for you in mind if you do ;)_ , a silly doodle of a heart as the letterhead. 

Nothing. The next time he catches a glimpse of his elusive brother, his arms are up to his elbows in soil, his sleeves rolled up to his biceps. Vergil's arms. Soil. These two observations should get Dante's noggin into hyperdrive, yet what his senses once again fixate on is the shirt, a button-up, his. Younger Dante the demon hunter wore it in bars, stopped after he had considered hooking up with a random patron and pussied out before he could find someone tall enough to preserve his delusions in the dim alleys. Didn't manage to throw it away, then. As he tries to work with the throat he's mysteriously managed to clog up ( _he wasn't cheating_ _on anyone because he hadn't made any promises and because_ nothing happened _, why is this so hard –_ ), the two pots his twin is hunched between announce their presence to him. One of them contains the bush the customer gave him and has been a part of the décor for a while, the other seems to be new.

"You are killing the plant. I am trying to move it into a bigger planter so that it will have more room to grow," Vergil offers, a smudge of dirt on his nose. Sure, he's giving out answers at no cost when nobody's demanding them. Dante, strangling on his raw nerves, makes a vague reply and watches him caress the shoots on the quiet.

Dante does kill the plant, several nights later. He plans it, executes the plot in the dark of night, premeditated murder. Vergil and gardening – well. Can't complain about the latest time when his brother showed an interest in a living (?) being other than them since Qliphoth the sad monstrous apple tree is the sole reason why he still has a living, breathing, sweater-swiping brother. Still. Stands to reason not to let him get any ideas.

The following morning, he finds him looking at the dead scrub in a snatched henley, a dissatisfied twist to his mouth. Patting his back in a fashion he hopes to be apologetic but not apologetic enough to reek of guilt, Dante decides against commenting on the level of blind idealism required to believe they could've kept the wretched root alive longer than a week anyway, had he not sabotaged the campaign just in case. Poor heart; after all these years, how can Vergil remain naïve enough to think either of them could create or sustain life?

––

The thing doesn't seem to be going away. Dante hopes it will and starts taking a shot every time he sees Vergil wearing something of his, but it doesn't take long for the amount to double or two to become three. Eventually, a single sighting is enough to get him tipsy, and because that's just annoying, he's swigging down extras in between just to maintain a sturdy buzz all day long. This, in turn, means he's seeing less of his sibling, who gets avoidant whenever his mouth has trouble finding the glass and the smell of rotgut on his breath begins to peel paint from the walls; naturally, not having him around has to be compensated with some additional boozing, completing the vicious circle of madness. Quite the dilemma they have here, uh-huh.

––

Okay, so the first few doses of snake oil flunked, let's get innovative. Mayhaps he should appeal to Vergil's contrarian mindset next: he'll wear anything as longs as it's Dante's, will he? As it happens, no he won't. When Dante pretends to buy himself a cardigan whose awful, awful fringe trimming constitutes a heinous crime against all that is good and holy, Vergil doesn't lift a finger towards its hideous, fluorescent glory. Too obvious. The second round of the trial involves a little more subtleness; Dante picks gaudiest orange jumper he can find but which he'd still wear with no hint of irony, certain that someone who had been vocal about hating the shade as a boy would keep loathing it. He wears it casually every now and then over the span of a fortnight, and sure enough, one morning the shirt is greeting him in the hall, propped on a less shapely mannequin. Pretty unbecoming on Vergil's pigmentation, yeah, Dante confirms. Drains all the color from his pallor, rendering him ashen. It's like looking into a mirror and seeing his own withered soul reflected back at him.

Dante's official conclusion is this: Vergil must be colorblind. Also doing the stealing 100 % on purpose.

––

There are a couple of irregularities in the paradigm – not all species of clothing are born and pilfered equal. Footwear, for the first, appears to be a protected subclass, mainly due to issues with size that only get resolved if Vergil channels his inner ugly stepsister and severs his toes in order to fit into Dante's glass boots. Plus it seems to be a minor principle of nature that Vergil Doesn't Wear Shoes Indoors, nor socks, most often. For some reason or another, he's seeing it fit to go barefooted despite the premises having underfloor heating only sporadically and when Dante's freezing his balls off by proxy, hearing his soles padding against the laminate. Strange to be tickled pink by that, but it's ultimately no harm to anyone. Picking his battles here.

The felon spares his pants too, usually. Got to be the impracticability at play again: Dante's build is hippy whereas Vergil has been modeled after a rectangular box, all the slickness of a foldable knife and zero hip dips, ass or other soft shapes in his lower regions. The original configuration is of course an upgrade from V's starvation mode, but it's clear Dante's trousers would natheless be too wide and short on his current chassis, his bony boyish waist, the legs that go on for aeons.

Correction: used to be that his pants were safe from his claws. Dante considers walking out on him when he spots his good slacks covering his crossed knees. As is often the case, Vergil is reclining on the settee like he owns the place, now having conquered even more Lebensraum for himself. Dante elects not to mention how many times he's thrown up on the seat out of the goodness of his heart; can't rob someone of their new favorite spot.

"You're gonna have to tack on some serious muscle if you want to borrow my knickers and not look ridiculous," he states faintly.

"'Borrowing' implies I intend to give them back," Vergil says, keeping his eye on the ball. 'Course semantics are more important than the message proper. Dante is going to sprain something.

"There's a name for that kind of behavior too. I forget what the word is, but it has negative connotations, you know, conveys the notion a person is snatching something that belongs to someone else without permission, like, illegally. Damn, I wonder what it's called."

Unsurprisingly, the thief doesn't balk at the kleptomania charges. "What is yours is mine, Dante. The opposite is true as well."

"So I've got carte blanche to molest your books now?"

"Yes. Mother did not raise a son who would disrespect libraries," Vergil hums. "I only ask that you leave my bookmarks be, should you run into any – losing them would be inconvenient, you understand. Might I suggest you start with Tibullus? Your Latin is rusty."

Dante has no comeback to that.

––

There's one additional anomaly he hasn't mentioned so far. Though the issue is highlighted by the more recent episodes of their saga, it's far from being new – Dante couldn't help but notice it in their teens already, on top of Temen-ni-gru where angry Yamato kept throbbing in the middle of his sternum as keenly as his own wounded arousalgrieflonging. While her handler was looming above his discarded body, his mind, fluttering on and off like a strobe light, could indeed appreciate how form-fitting the trousers were. Tight on Vergil's powerful thighs, not very roomy in the crotch either; no creases or visible seams lurking underneath the leather, smooth and snug. Curious, was his idle verdict back then. Didn't have the poise or time to get hot and bothered about it because he thought he was seconds away from dying, and soon it was Vergil dying and Vergil dead and what he wore or didn't wear suddenly had no meaning at all. Now, well, now it's inescapable.

Fact – Vergil, his prim and proper, prudish, private, nerdy brother, went and goes commando. Night and day, from Monday to Sunday, summers, winters, in the kitchen, out in the open, while he's writing his notes, when he's cooking and chopping the vegetables into smiley faces because that's what he used to do when they were six and he's sentimental. When Dante eventually commits the mistake of thinking about it, he can claim with the absolutely certainty of someone who has unbuttoned him or seen him undress every day after they came back to Earth that he's been unclothed downstairs ever since the underworld tour, twenty-four seven, jesus fucking christ. Once upon a time, in a universe where they didn't keep having sartorial issues, this could've been treated as a naughty little secret, a bonus Dante would get to unwrap at will and savor on the sly. In the current timeline, though, it has every making of a disaster. How's he supposed to tackle their problems with him in the room like this, seriously?

Having difficulties to tell if this is the beginning of a nightmare or a porno or both, Dante decides to fix the bug by buying a value pack of briefs and stuffing them into the same cabinet that shelters his own skivvies; the whereabouts aren't a mystery to Vergil, they've snooped around there in search of body oil and Dante's house keys before. He later finds the all underwear sorted into piles by color, neatly folded like the rest of the rejected gifts. The same fate meets the pre-owned boxers he's willing to part from for the sake of his sanity – they disappear from the cabinets of Vergil's desk in the study and resurface in the master bedroom soon after. Unacceptable, not good enough. Is it the cut? The wrong fabric?

He tries silk, which has been a hit in bedcovers. No expenses spared, his bank account is crying, but surely his sibling can't resist the stylish comfort of the lovely ink-blue slips he's got for his junk, yeah, why the hell would he want to deal with all the jiggling and chafing and such anyway? That's a bust too. Not willing to give up and give in, not that he has a choice in the matter at any rate, Dante gets immersed in different blends of rayon, nylon, lycra, polyester, tricot, spandex. Briefs in various forms, mini, midi or maxi. Tangas? Maybe the bastard likes to show off his thighs. No? How about hipsters? Long boxers or johns?

Jockstraps, perchance, fucking strings. Manly leggings? At some point down the line, Dante notes he will never have to purchase breeches for himself again if he loses some weight – their storage space is now chock-full of this shit. Red, blue, white, aubergine, striped, little bundles of cloth and elastic band surging down to the floor when he opens the cabin he used to keep his spare ammo in. He'll probably get there, the target weight, because his appetite is starting to crave liquid lunches only.

Alright, if this is Vergil subtly proclaiming he'd like to try something new in the sack, Dante thinks vehemently, fully aware he's guided by spite now, then his wish will be heard. Thanks to the impeding mental breakdown that's supplying him with loads of jittery energy, he can't feel as ashamed about visiting local sex store and its wide array of pantyhose and lingerie as he normally would. At this stage, even weird fetish wear would be an improvement somehow; yes, Vergil's proud quads would look absurd in sateen panties, but Dante's dying here. At least he'd be thinking about lame clothing items every time he saw his brother instead of, you know, thinking about his dick. Hanging there inside his pants au naturel. Naked. As if it's a novel, never-before-seen revelation that there's a penis attached to the guy he's fraternized with in nude at several ages and when the said penis has made intimate acquaintance with his mouth, hands and ass, also his feet that one time when it occurred to him to test if either of them happened to have any undiscovered kinks for those. The results came back negative, should anyone ask, but as weirded out as Vergil had been, he couldn't deny Dante's toes were talented enough to get him off regardless. Anywho.

Vergil, predictably, doesn't even poke at the lace. A client happens to spot a pair of frilly unmentionables on the office desk during a meeting and things get embarrassing for everyone involved, so Dante locks the ruffles away and hopes his bullheaded bunkmate will get back to laying his hands on him on a regular basis.

––

To state the obvious, thinking about Vergil's dick when the prick is clothed in his costumes isn't productive. It's getting worse, the trousers-wearing. Thinking as well, frankly. The asshole has graduated to wearing a pair of light grey sweatpants as if to signal payback is a bitch and harassing him with suggestions he's unlikely to comply with will give cause for retaliation. Honestly, Dante had no idea he even owned those in the first place. Strutting around with a bare chest and unnecessary cleavage is one thing for him, been there done that, flaunting a bulge another. Weird to be the modest twin in something. To be fair, Vergil isn't doing much in the joggers: he loiters around the building, sits on Dante's desk with a book on his knee while he desperately tries to focus on his accounting, lies on his bed and sofa like there's nothing out of the ordinary about him brandishing his manhood at his unsuspecting victims like a sword. Exists. It's lewd. The fabric is pristine enough, no ratty welts or perforated pockets, that it's likely seeing the light of day on a person for the first time now. Much too big on him, naturally, because this is lunacy and Dante hates him. Due to the poor fit, Vergil has to gird the bottoms around his delicate waist with the drawstrings to avoid flashing his stuff, which is indeed visible through the front of the pants. A nice long curve residing between his legs unbothered, uncut.

Dante really detests it when the horny portions of his system prevail over his irritation, so he doubles down and spends way too much on even uglier rags, which accomplishes precisely jack shit in the grand scheme of things. The purchases won't get worn, but he takes consolation in the fact his stolen pants are treated the same in the great outdoors, the city – in the rare case Vergil deems it necessary to wander there, he'll be donning his own leathers, tailored to perfection in the sense that they hide most his assets unless you know where to look for them, have a good eye and enough carnal knowledge to discover the trim cut of his hips and the lengthy lines his femurs and fibulas draw on his silhouette. This is good, not only for domestic peace but also to the general public, because it spares Dante the trouble of disemboweling anyone who dares to linger on his valuables in addition to gouging out their balls, all four of them.

A modest proposal: maybe Dante ought to stick to his guns, you know, concentrate on what he's good for and what his brother likes about him. Withhold the goods, use straight-faced extortion and stop the jerk from getting laid until he quits mucking about or explains why he's behaving the way he is. Right. The idea is about as realistic and feasible as what the guy who penned _Gulliver's Travels_ had put forward in his humble suggestion; Dante is as likely to give up shagging as the Irish are to eat their own children.

Not that he's really been getting any lately. Trying not to think about that.

––

Vergil is smart, though. Intelligent, even, well read and pompous enough to be mistaken for any civilized, classically trained twat who attended an actual school. Good at making observations. This hurts to acknowledge, makes you look past your shoulder for an angered god who's ready to smite you down on the spot for such a preposterous claim. Namely, the topic of discussion also happens to be a maniac who has continually, decade in and decade out, done everything in his power to prove his idiocy by lunging head-first into his own doom, gleefully lacking any self-regard, which necessarily leads to the deduction that he chooses not to be smart when push comes to shove. 

But Vergil is smart and Vergil sees. He leaves the coats alone.

Dante's coat, the coat, the one he currently favors, can be found on the backs of chairs like a giant severed tongue, dumped on the floor to gather dust, as a lump on the couch, lost in the attic, under the covers at the foot of the bed, a crimson stain in the bathtub, but never ever on Vergil's clavicles unless Dante drapes it there himself. He's done that in the past, made Vergil huff thoughtfully after he's made a conversational note about the weather being chilly – _does he mind, does this hurt his pride, does he sense how tight Dante's stomach feels from all the hot possessiveness that has settled there at the sight and scent_ –, but his twin has yet to take the liberty on his own. Given how poorly Dante's handling him abusing his hostility in every other manner, he should be counting his blessings.

They're just textile and holes and bloodstains, the coats. Really. Dead memories of events he'd be stuck with even if he quit hoarding inanimate reminders, nothing to get upset about. He's kept them in any event, kept the glove, the photograph, used to wear the amulet when he still had it. Part of his punishment, an ersatz ankle monitor taped around his being so that he won't have to choose to remember. Not forgetting has to be a conscious decision or he won't suffer in due form. Ergo, mementos. There's an Eva with him as long as he takes her resemblance in objects, unable to find rest; her red legacy, his imitation of her, his genuine desire to learn to cherish the color he'd shunned in his early childhood. The thing is, there's nothing he wouldn't share with Vergil and wants him to have it all if he'll have it because he craves the approval he doesn't think he deserves. These stupid pieces of soiled fabric, though – they're personal in a way that leaves even Dante out, as if it's a piece of him that he's locked away from himself as well as all the others. Approximately none of this thought construction makes any sense. Best he can do, nonetheless. It's never much.

Another deduction. Vergil abiding by the rules of sanctity Dante has imposed on the coats tells he's literate in his bollocks, as if it needed any confirmation by now. More importantly, it seems that he's capable of acting accordingly, leaving matters be – it's not a given by any means when you're dealing with a person who has an extensive, varied history of seeing spire-high keep-out signs as an open invitation. When it's someone who's huddled on the armchair, hiding his chin inside a shirt that's about four sizes too big and spells out "Dante" on the chest, bright red letters and glitter. Someone who's nosy. Treats everything as his property and makes Dante detest how much he likes that about him when it comes to anything else but the clothes. _Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'entrate_.

That's all Dante's willing to say about the topic. Anything's free game and up for grabs according to his twin, but the coats stay put.

––

Most of their troubles stem from the fact that Vergil isn't an idiot, for all that he chooses to act like one. Dante gets reminded of this more concretely than he'd like when his vexation backfires on him unexpectedly; things have to get worse before they can get really bad. Story of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since this is a prompt fic, I didn't throw in my usual 5389279057 pretentious Latin references, but I'll still have a couple of actual author's notes. Will add those to the final chapter, which is also where things really get graphic / fluffy.


	2. ii. Skies

The courier who greets him at the door and asks for a signature looks like he's sick of life and would rather set himself on fire than deliver another package to any hellhole in this neighborhood. Golly. His animosity gets Dante wondering if he's a frequent visitor at _DMC_ , yet the mug doesn't ring a bell. Must've stood here more often plastered than lucid, eh? He thanks the dude politely anyway, puts out a smile he hopes is merely friendly and not an unintentional come-hither call, who knows how human expressions work, and has forgotten the color of the mop he was gaping at by the time the door clicks shut behind him. He's a people person, what can he say.

"Not this again," Vergil speaks somewhere above him, ruthlessly abusing his talent for sounding both impassive and indignant within the same breath. Despite becoming ever so slightly more domesticated over the months they've spent together after his latest stunt, he hasn't lost his ability to creep up on him unawares when it ought to be impossible; Dante's skeleton tries to jump out of his skin and makes the cardboard box he's yet to rummage through fall to the ground, shoot.

"What?" he plays it cool and plays innocent while trying to shove the packet under the nearby counter in a manner that's hopefully inconspicuous but likely isn't due to counter being so low it won't fit the darned thing. When he turns to face his uninvited audience, lured to the scene of crime by the supernatural instincts a shark would use to taste blood in the water from three yards away, crap, Vergil's descending the stairs with the sort of eerie placidity that spells out trouble with capital letters. At least Dante managed to pay the mailman in time: if his brother scared the piss out of the dude, who knows what would've happened. They really don't have the money to deal with a traumatized outsider again, not when the clothes bills need paying.

"The answer is no. Return the package and forget about it," Vergil says, gliding down the last step with the grace of a dancer. The effect is ruined by him wearing a raggedy bathrobe that's fraying at the hems and missing several buttons, but only somewhat. Underneath the fabric, Vergil's frame is glistening with dew, a faded pink, shower fresh, fragrant soaked hair. Imagining him in the bathroom still isn't productive to anything, so Dante's very careful about not doing it even if he can taste the soap on his palate, envisioning what he might've been up to there, under the water streaming down his spine, foggy with the warmth, alone, maybe only a name on his lips accompanying him, husky groans washed away in the rain; a hand brushing away a strand of wet hair falling on his nose, tracing a sensual line down his jaw to his sternum to a flat stomach, mirroring the way he would graze the trail on Dante's lower abdomen but more boldly because his own tenderness would not break him, his clever cruel hand, brushing its way past another thicket of silvery hair to curl around –

"What?" Dante repeats, surprising himself with his eloquence.

"The package. Return it." Apparently his improvised tactic of stepping in front of the object is doing nothing to hide it. Damn. Devise a distraction? Just – how come Royal Guard only manages to protect him on battle fields?

"Pretty sure you already said that, Verge."

"It bears repeating. Here, just for you: please, send it back it."

Vergil halts his steps by his side, hovering close but keeping a certain distance while he gathers his wits and the package. Right-o, the package. Large enough to house a pair of boxing gloves but not, like, a bowling ball, weighs more the expected on his arms. There are footsteps following his retreat to the dinner table, light and so carefully pronounced that no one's in doubt whether Vergil could move completely silently or not. What a show-off. Chivalrous to a fault, he pulls Dante a chair before sitting down himself, just happens to pick the spot opposite to him and making their friendly little chat an interrogation, crosses his fingers under his chin and scans his prey soup to nuts. Dante bristles, resisting the urge to preen and twirl his hair. Ghastly; his brother resembles their mother the most in moments like these, when he thins his full mouth into a slim pale blade and lowers his lashes in a manner that shouldn't look as threatening and/or erotic as it does.

"We don't even know what it is," Dante begins his defense, shifting in guilt and definitely not sporting a shameful erection. Weaponized femininity stares at him unblinking. "I've no idea what the contents are, and even if I did, so what, it's my prerogative to, y'know, own shit and obtain possessions. Unlike you, I'm not some ascetic monk living in a hole in the ground in the middle of some dry desolate desert where nothing grows and there's nothing else to do than train and read shitty poetry. I need things to live."

"Ascetics are celibate as a rule, something you know I am not. Although now that you have mentioned abstinence, I am beginning to see the appeal. Don't push your luck. Return it."

"But−"

"Whatever it is, it is not innocuous. If it were, you would have been bragging about it ever since you made the purchase. Dante, you spent two weeks gushing about bed sheets."

Straight to the accusations! Preposterous; he's acting as if Trish hasn't been bestowing unwelcome gifts upon them before. 'Not this again', straight from the horse's mouth, ipse dixit. He's making Dante the scapegoat and laying the blame on him when he could be not guilty. Theoretically.

"I object to that remark, shocked and appalled. Come on, meus Vergilius–"

"'Mi Vergili', direct address takes the vocative case. Even you know this much; trying to rile me up on purpose, mi frater?"

"Blow me. As I was saying, you've got to admit the sheets are nice. They're silk. Great looks, premium quality, very smooth an' all. No one's getting a rug burn when we fool around in them."

"As if getting burned has ever deterred you from anything," Vergil snipes, faithful to his villainous ways. Dante dismisses the dig at his preferences and starts to tear off the stripes of tape wrapped around the cardboard. The bagger has gone crazy with it, so he'll have to chew the fat in the meanwhile; they'll be here for a while, sitting in oppressive, daunting, rigid silence. Can't have that.

"Your logic only works if I'm to blame for it, which I'm not." A technical truth, the best kind there is if you ask any Sparda heir. Two can play the game. "This is someone else's doing. Besides, I have the legal right to secrecy of correspondence, so shoo, bro, your supervision is not needed here."

"Great," Vergil drawls, not budging a centimeter. "Then you can dispose of the item without ever having to involve me. Do be quick about it, there are, hm, other things we could be doing."

"Fine, you can stay and watch if it's so important to you," Dante says with a dramatic sigh. The words _other things_ aren't a promise, except for all the ways they totally are. Agh, why's he so weak against a voice that kinda sounds like it's having a constant sinus infection? "Didn't even get a look at the contents myself; you move fast. I should ban teleporting and using Yamato within the house, it'll give me a heart attack one unlucky day."

"I would like to see you try."

"My roof, my rules," he singsongs, then freezes. It occurs to him too late it's not the soundest of plans to encourage his sibling to leave his family behind when he's done it unprompted and has refused to promise he won't resort to it again. Won't hesitate to write Dante out of his will and fake his death if he convinces himself he has to. Dante's limited outreach will never hold him back.

Thankfully, Vergil responds before he actually gets to experience the stroke he was predicting just a moment ago: "Dante. If my katana is trespassing, I have overstayed my welcome. All the same, I am calling your bluff; do I have to remind you of how you kept begging me to use her on you just a week ago?"

He doesn't blush, but it's a near thing. Vergil is referring to a practice match, an innocent event, which admittedly reminds him of the latest occasion when the usage was anything but. To escape his smirk and shirk the duty of thanking him for letting his blunder pass without a remark, Dante gets to unboxing the present.

The shoes he frees from the cardboard constrains are flashy enough to blind a careless man, lavish royal blue with gold accents that glimmer as light hits them. He sets one of them on the table and turns the other around in his hands, following the metal lines from the stiletto heels to the rounded toe box; above the sole and the yellow bottom, the golden splashes form similar patterns to Yamato's dots at the heel and the front of the shoe, only a few bright specks decorating the otherwise unadorned sides, opulent dyed leather with a synthetic shine. You could take an eye out with this thing, the gilded seven-inch icepick – or bash someone's head in by using it as a blunt instrument. The elegance takes a small hit by the footwear being so large in size it'd fit the freak of nature who's inspecting it now, upper lip curled in distaste. For real: while Dante has big manly feet that are proportionate to the rest of his bulk, Vergil's are simply huge, the difference being around three numbers. They, incidentally, have no correlation to the size of anything else, thank you very much, anyone who says differently is a dirty brazen liar.

"Hideous," Vergil states, holding the second heel between his fingers and far away from him enough that it won't get the jump on him if it turns out to be more dangerous a serpent than expected. Dante mumbles his mantra about him not being at fault if he's terrorized with free handouts and thoughtless gestures. The situation is a train wreck but not beyond salvaging yet; if he manages to divert his attention to something else…

“There is a message inside the packaging," his twin points out lazily, his face aloof but hiding a sardonic grin. Shit. "I am sure the mysterious identity of whoever it is that had poor enough taste to send this abomination to you will reveal itself if we just read the missive."

"Don't badmouth my friends like that, you prick. You're just jealous you don't have any."

"Friends or bad taste?"

"Dealer's choice, " Dante says, magnanimous.

The bastard drops the pump on the counter, stretches his wrist lusciously. "One could argue I have a boyfriend. He is even more of a boor than his numerous associates when it comes to matters of preference, so my assertion was and is correct."

Well played; this round goes to him, no contest. _Boyfriend_. What an unflattering title for a grown male. Furthermore, they're more than that and Vergil knows it better than anyone, trying to insult him maybe, and Dante's useless, flailing at the word as if he's a flustered nineteen-year old again and has caught stolen sight of a sliver of an abdomen his sword had bared on a strict blue vest. The less time he dedicates to dwelling on pale skin and empty terms, the sooner he'll get away from this bind.

He can do it, take the quip a light-hearted joke it was meant to be, move on. Sways under the gaze, tensing the gluteus on the left, on the right. Clears his airways, hacks out his stupefaction through his gullet. _Vergil's boyfriend_. "It's Trish alright, just you watch." The brow raised at him begs to differ, but Vergil chooses not to voice his incredulity, simply crossing his arms and leaning back in await.

Dante spends a few quiet moments inspecting the card and the covering note, fishing for something to report aloud. Christ, there are bad ideas and then there are bad ideas, but show must go on.

Here goes nothing. "Wow, I think I just read a love letter addressed to me. This has got to be a prank, see – who else but an imp and a charlatan would do something like that? My oh-so-secret admirer should get herself a hobby that doesn't involve bullying poor old me."

"And what does it say?"

" _Dear Tony_ , – this is why I think it's her, still keeps referring to me with such an ancient pseudonym – _I, a lowly anonymous follower of your feats of valor by many years, saw a little something out on the town today and thought about you. I dare not presume a catch like you is an eligible bachelor, you must be taken and have masses of suitors in line, waiting for you to lavish them with your interest. No, I do not intend to compete for your favor, I am undeserving of it. Instead, have these as a humble token of my appreciation that extends both towards your winning personality and the physical goods, which are worthy of admiration and attention; I truly hope you have someone to provide you with those. Furthermore, I hope you find my gift agreeable and can share it with a party who sees how well it_ – think this is a spelling error, it's probably supposed to say "complements" but that's not what stands here – _compliments your voluptuous legs_. It goes on for a while after that, waxing poetic about the other aspects of my person the writer wishes a special someone ravishes, you got the idea. Aww; a bit stalkerish, but frankly I'm kind of flattered."

"You wrote the note yourself. Your _friends_ ," Vergil states with bored conviction, pronouncing the word as if he finds the mere taste of it distasteful, "would never call any part of your figure 'voluptuous'. But if this is not a hoax you have orchestrated, heaven only knows why you would try, send Trish my regards: surely, it must be devastating for a demon to turn blind in her prime."

"Nuh-uh, it's legitimate and my legs are fetching." Perhaps it's true that Trish would just claim he's gotten fat with age, but Vergil is still dishonest; Dante happens to know he likes them limbs just fine, especially when they're laid on his shoulders and open up under his tongue. He doesn't seem to find fault with anything when he licks a stripe on the inner thigh, his pupils blending into his irises and swallowing Dante's mirrored arousal with practiced ease, about to dive forward to mouth at something else. Mm, he's been giving himself complexes again, he sees.

Concentrate, maybe? Losing a round of banter due to his pants getting hot is always disgraceful. Vergil's speaking now, not giving him head. Watch out.

"Well, show it to me then, the letter. You seem very confident that I will not recognize your handwriting when I see it."

"No," Dante says, flipping the card closed with a huff. "It's a print, can't scrutinize the penmanship. Besides. You insulted my body, I'm no longer in the mood to show you anything. You can, dunno, ogle your own shins in the mirror and jerk off in peace if they're up to your standards, see if I care."

Why does he keep thinking about Vergil touching himself? He probably even doesn't have to do that, hearing himself talk is gratifying enough for such a tool. Stop thinking about Vergil masturbating.

Vergil, both palms visible above the table, inclines his head in mock solemnity. The motion does nothing to hide the glint in his eyes, though. Underneath his slanted eyelashes, he's measuring Dante like he's either feeling vindictive about something or is two seconds away from popping his jeans. Appears the recent bout of chastity has made sure the two of them run a one-track mind, jonesing in twain. Amazing.

"Ah. I would have offered to give you a massage to make up for the disappointment of your scheming coming to naught, but I see you have made up your mind and respect your resolution," he says.

Dante's brain bleeps, about to switch off. Good riddance. "Does 'a massage' by any chance include you sucking me off?"

"It depends. How angry are you?"

"Very," Dante sniffles.

Vergil's smirk is really not even a smirk. Much too mild to be called any expression that an actual mortal could get caught in, kind of condescending too, but damn if Dante isn't feeling it with his cock. Obscene. "Yes."

When Dante manages to regain control of the limbs that Vergil tires out with his hands and the warm interior of his throat three hours later or so, he picks up the shoes, puts them back into the box and hides the box into the attic in the hopes it won't disappear "inexplicably" when he's not around. Lamenting the costs and poor returns of the campaign too – the resale market for canoes with heels can't be too broad if getting your hands on them is already so tough, so he's looking at a loss here unless the damn things can be repurposed somehow.

Even though the rub-down did have its happy end and Dante did get his dick sucked like promised, he may have overdone it a bit. The note – scratch that, the entire operation – was admittedly a spur of the moment thing and did not have that much thought put into it at any point. On second thought, may have been under the influence as well, back when he'd been flipping through a skin mag to distract himself with pinups of people he's never been successfully attracted to and noticed a series of ads. Made sense in the context to do a specialized order, at least he supposes it did. Definitely had been pissed off at the time to the point where getting Vergil to wear women's shoes looked like serving him his just desserts. Calculus is far from Dante's strongest suit, though, and only one of Eva's sons is adept at probability theories; okay, so pretending the Vergil-colored pumps were meant for him isn't a red flag that would provoke Vergil into appropriating them, duly noted. Does reverse psychology even work on psychopaths?

In hindsight, it's kind of hilarious how good a job Dante's doing of convincing everyone and their mother that he's got a huge kink for womenswear when in reality his fetishes are much more depraved, his brother's thighs and fingers and mouth and yes, his stupidly large penis. Regardless, he's man enough to admit it could've been sort of sexy, the heels enhancing and elongating his calves, which he would have bent just so to step on -- Anyway, who knows, maybe Dante can make him lose a bet one day and they come in handy then; his pride would make him honor the deal, no matter how fervently he'd like to weasel out of it. Hope is the thing with feathers and stilettos.

All things and sins considered, Dante forgives him for hogging the bathrobe. The sex was sweet, especially so after the dry spell they've somehow been putting themselves through, and it's not like they have too many of those hanging around, extra dressing gowns. Until they do, which is also the point where his mood turn sour again: when he visits yet an underwear store for more lounging clothes, the shop assistant who notices his nervous sweating is suspiciously giddy about helping out a guy to pick a garment for his alleged _boyfriend_ , but the robe de chambre he purchases with the last of his pennies might as well be custom made too, seeing it's navy blue on the outside and has a rich golden tint on the inner side. Dante manages a genuine grateful smile by the power of saccharine nonsense he can't help entertaining; picturing his twin wrapped in the satin that's keeping him company when he's alone; drinking licorice root tea in the quiet morning hours, knowing he's thought about, has been valued by someone; almost a faithful representation of Mom in her better moments, when she could think of herself as someone who had been loved without bitterness.

Yeah, it's all bullshit. The apple of Dante's eye expresses gratitude as politely as Sparda's inamorata would, but that's where the similarities end. No sightings of Vergil in the getup get made during the following weeks. Dante is an idiot. Grass is green and remains greener in assorted imaginary utopias where communication is king or even a remote possibility. As an idiot who is also broke, Dante turns to the bank of Trish, gets a loan and treats himself for once. Easier to lick your wounds when alcohol dulls the sting. Eva's vices live on in his insecurity, cognac golden.

This is where bad gets worse. The crash isn't surprising in the least, it's the circumstances he marvels at until the drink he's nursing makes it all go away for a blissful minute.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No, the heels won't be making a comeback and the smut won't involve crossdressing :D
> 
> If it wasn't obvious, "meus Vergilius/mi Vergili" means "my Vergilius" and "mi frater" translates to "my brother", naturally in the proper vocative form one uses while addressing another person.
> 
> Ch 3: time for drama.


	3. iii. Terrors

So. The crash. He's prone to hyperbole and catastrophizing, sue him.

In general, the breath before the plunge could be worse – Dante's an expert on things going pear shaped at regular intervals until they hit a wall and flatten into a rock bottom, so although it feels like everything around him has been moved an inch to the left while he's stuck to where he was, suffering from the world being so askew, nothing is acutely horrible, the poisoning slow rather than instantly deadly. They survive the footwear fiasco intact and hang themselves neatly on tenterhooks, doing this _I'm avoiding you but not really_ thing by mutual accord. Progress, consequently, isn't made during the following weeks; they've reached a stalemate where every step takes them closer to the edge of an unknown precipice they're instinctually wary of, so they hold still and wait for the other shoe to drop, tumble down the ravine and survive the fall, or not. Something has changed if Vergil himself isn't doing a swan dive off the cliff as soon as he spots it, Dante thinks bitterly during one of his more lucid moments. The glibness is doing him no favors.

The standoff: Vergil keeps looting Dante's wearables, Dante drinks so that he can put up with it. Vergil disapproves, Dante withdraws further into the cask because the lack of contact makes him paranoid about getting left behind for the millionth and likely final time in his life, isolating himself further as a result. The lovely merry-go-round of downwards spirals and domino effects is sustained by their combined reserves of barrel-aged stubbornness, hence it won't be lacking steam as long as they keep driving down their appointed lanes, blinkers on, no sideway glances. In an impasse like this, Dante supposes, the only way out is letting the collision happen, crawling out of the flaming wreckage if your feet still carry you. Because Lady Fortuna, his second-oldest nemesis slash companion, is intent on throwing him into situations where he can't tell whether he should be laughing or crying or both, what pushes them over is, stupidly enough, acquiring fresh produce.

It's been proven over and over again that Vergil won't be partake in clothes shopping no matter what he's bribed with. The list of items tried is awfully extensive and includes miscallaneous pieces of weaponry, rare manuscripts, asspats – literal or proverbial –, shibari, handies in the dirty depressing customer toilets at the mall, inequal distribution of other household chores, the moon, illegal alchemical substances and orbs, to name a few. Coming up with Christmas presents for the guy simply makes Dante squeal with joy, he can only wrap himself in ribbons so many times without the idea becoming stale. Anyway. For some reason, haberdashery runs seem to be something Vergil's diametrically opposed to. Should he have an interest in donning his own clothes, it'd might make a certain amount of sense, they do have to be tailored and bespoke to begin with. Can't buy dramatic triads of coattails and yellow-gold linings off the rack when everyone else is wearing trenches or sensible peacoats in such exotic colors as black, gray and camel, especially if you happen eclipse the sun with your height and are around 90 per cent legs, and Dante keeps referring to those only because they're relevant to the topic at hand and also very very long. The logic starts to falter when the shittiest creations of cheap fast fashion are up to par as long as they belong to Dante, ill-fitting as they are on the thief. The refusal to go hunting for bargains and blazers could be partly related to Vergil kind of really fucking hating having to interact with regular mortals, sure, yet luring him out for groceries is actually doable if the incentives are right. Hm.

That's what they are at when the inevitable happens and the bread falls butter-side down. Grocery shopping, with the right incentives arranged. The gates of Hell look deceptively mundane. Dante, oblivious to having entered Hades, is flipping through a shiny car mag he's relatively sure Trish has already bought for herself and could be generous enough to lend while watching his brother delve into the piles of fruit in search of the perfect specimen. Now that food doesn't have to be merely fuel for survival, he tends to be somewhat particular about what he consumes. Like, he still doesn't deem it necessary to have supper as frequently as Dante, but on the rare occasion he joins him in the kitchen, they're flung back to their childhood dinner table; little Vergil turning his picky little nose up at mushrooms, apples, the wrong variety of chocolate, _it has currants in it Mom, I will not eat this_. It's cute. Dante shelves the gazette and creeps closer to him until he's standing right behind his back, unable to resist the urge to lay his palms on his shoulder blades and lean into him. Still kinda bony, but he feels nice and firm and warm. For the lack of an actual significant way to verbalize his emotions, he likes having him here.

"Do you even like plums?" Dante asks his ear, pitch chest-deep and husky, pecking the shell with a light kiss. Vergil freezes, or stays as frozen as he's been the entire time he's had him draped across his frame.

"I don't know," he answers, sounding carefully, artificially bland. Detachment. Abbreviating. Shit. Dante backs off immediately, uncertain where he's gone wrong but thoroughly convinced it's what he's done 'cause this isn't good, not normal for them at the point where they're supposed to be at. Vergil stays still for a beat, then sets the plum he's been rolling on his hand down with overstated care. When he turns, his features have been beaten into stiff obedience, an aegis no loving caresses will penetrate. "Please stop doing that."

"'That'?" Dante says, a sinking feeling surging into his stomach fast enough to make his head spin. He'd for real thought he had understood where their comfort zones overlapped and what kind of limits their interaction in public had, that Vergil wasn't taking exception to the occasional hand holding or chaste kiss if they weren't outright stared at, and they're not now because there's nobody around but them around this section of the store, and Dante's even grown out his facial hair to mask how similar their mugshots would look when they're both clean shaven, he'd dye his hair too if he thought it would stick but knows his genes won't allow it. Shows what little he knows about the person he's sharing his living quarters and genitals with. "You mean PDA?"

Vergil opens and closes his mouth, compresses it into a piano string, stifles a comment, opens and closes again. After a while, he lets out a _yes_ that sounds like a _no_ ; his skin settles on his facial bones with the stillness of a helmet. Dante is usually fond of his face, how weird he is about (not) using it for its intended communicative purposes, however irritating it may be to try to parse his thoughts with not much to go on. He's learning, and while Vergil's more guarded than he'd ever been as a child – when he'd already been reserved but when Dante was confident enough not to second guess himself non-stop –, to his credit it has to be admitted he tries to let Dante in, avoids the intentionally inscrutable airs. Conscious effort and genuine reactions. He smiles, he laughs, he frowns, even stuck out his tongue at him in a particularly whimsy mood once, his lips quirk up in unguarded pleasure and pride. Not every day or during every chat but not infrequently either. Sometimes, though, his eyes get so blank that he looks straight up dead. On him, it's a familiar guise. Makes you wonder; has the Angelo not gone away completely? There's only rainproof blue in Vergil's irises and his pupils are dense enough not to let Mundus' red light shine through, yet the effect is so similar Dante will be compelled to fool around to make it disappear before the barrier fastens itself at the site permanently. Don't pull faces or you'll get stuck like that, huh – figures it'd be among the few pieces of advice Eva gave him that he's actually followed to some degree.

Today, he gets one of those. The latter type, the lifeless stares illuminated by the lack of everything and anything, devoid of recognition. Do I remember you. Do I remember me. That's what Vergil looks like. Dante should really tell him someday how terrified he gets in moments like these, but now's not that day and he can't find the words. For their common sake, one of them has to snap out of it regardless, and since his brother doesn't seem to be up to the task, it's all on Dante. Act natural. Try not to add insult to injury, perhaps.

He does get a grip, sort of. Admittedly, "snapping out of it" à la Dante sounds a lot like snapping at Vergil, but he's got to cut himself some slack. "Sure, fine, won't do it again, sorry. Done with the prunes and junk?"

Again, the affirmative he receives has the characteristics of a negation. Dante picks up a random banana and tosses it into the handcart for the lack of anything better to occupy himself with, waits for his twin to walk to his side so that they can continue the tour. They've been developing various types of amiable silence but this one is loaded, akin to putting your foot on ice that may or may not be too thin to hold. Dante's way of solving the problem: put the feet inside your mouth instead. Bravo.

"Isn't it kind of hard to keep me as your dirty little secret if you keep wearing my garb so openly, though? That shirt is screaming it's not yours, y'know, people could notice," he says as they start walking towards the dairy department to get, uhh, what was on the list again, mozzarella. The retort he intends a playful quip comes out unexpectedly bitter, as if he's more hurt by the cold shoulder treatment than he's realized.

"What." Vergil's intonation is flatter than the flattest plain in Africa; the same is probably true for his expression, but Dante misses it due to marching on and noticing his entourage has halted only a couple of seconds later when no one's bitching about his choices in queso. He pauses too, then adds the products he's grabbed into the basket without bothering to face his brother. Di Bufala, ricotta, why not a block of edam too, let's make a mess of things. Vergil hates it when he speaks to him with his back turned on him, yeah yeah yeah. Sucks to be him, he doesn't leave Dante enough time to school his snout into any appropriately neutral formation because unlike some, he's often guilty of the crime of using it to emote.

"Do you honestly believe I am ashamed to love you?" says the voice behind him. Not snarling, not shouting, just this indifferent conversational tone, unvarying inflection, monotonous in nuance. What the hell does he take Dante for? Does he really, truly have to fucking ask – –

Maybe, yes. Now that he mentions it.

Nightmares tend to have a sense of irreality to them even when the dream location is based on the most prosaic of places, not merely due to the events or actors ranging from improbable to impossible but also thanks to sleep itself having some je-ne-sais-quoi qualities to it, alienating its guest even from the ordinary. The current scene is surreal in a similar way, Dante's just not naked and on a podium or fraternizing with a life form he's personally eradicated within the chambers of a castle he's blessed with the obliterating embrace of napalm. No, enter stage cheese isle; he's holding a shopping bin filled with bread, preserved pineapple rings, tomatoes and lube because they're planning to spend the weekend cooking and hiding the salami and generally spending some quality time together on a plane of reality where they're not tearing each other apart in a supermarket. Because Vergil requested they have dinner, implicitly asking Dante to stay sober for it, and he has, he has honored his part of the deal, and he hates being sober in the here and now. He swears he'll never forgive Vergil if he breaks up with him in front of a shelf of eggs of all things, lined up neatly in their tiny carton caskets as if they're oblivious to how absurd the situation is and how ridiculously nonsensical it is that they're there. He's not breathing, he should be. Breaking up, breaking free. From this relationship they've never named. Or otherwise agreed they have. Which is thus functionally inexistent. Harder to destroy that which doesn't exist. Albeit it does exist, they do, the liaison. _Boyfriend_ , Vergil's derisive afterimage pokes fun at him. If they put a name to their affiliation, he, perhaps mentally checked out of the relationship already, can dump him as well, put an end to them. They can only kill what they've created. Distantly, Dante hears himself speaking. It must be him, given that the other individual present is busy resembling a statue again.

"Maybe this is a conversation we should be having in private," he suggests, unreasonably reasonable. Dante's narrating it inside his head like that, actually; a mysterious _he_ is the one to speak and he speaks of himself in the third person to his mind so that he can forget he's him, Dante speaking. Surprise: he really does come across that rational, unshaken. It's just an impartial statement about facts observed, affects him as much as dissent on whether the weather forecast predicted a drizzle worth of one or two raindrops this morning. So many filters between his brain and mouth that his words could purify water. Impressive.

Vergil seems to agree. "Incredible," he notes drily, then takes a small calm breath. Doesn't take a telepathist to realize he's beside himself with something if he has to resort to counting to ten to dodge whatever's prompting him to lash out. Vergil livid is a creature of frost or controlled, refined blue fire that leaves no traces of soot, is chill and more calculatedly cruel than ever. Where Dante explodes in fury, he erases every shred of emotion in his being and becomes a winter-frigid landscape of unadulterated, solid composure, only directing the heat of his ire where it counts. Unpersons himself to leave more room for his hatred. It's frightening to detect an aberration in the pattern, a chink in his armor, but since a scared Dante is a Dante who commits fratricide and blurts out phrases he doesn't think he means, he signs a rude gesture, daring his twin to go on.

Vergil is happy to humor him this time. "I agree," he says, forgetting he's supposed to blink every once in a while. "Pray tell, then: why are you trying to make us have it right now?"

Rather than tell him to piss off, Dante decides to rely on the old trick of denying everything on the off chance it might hide he's upset. Has certainly worked wonders in history. "I'm not trying jack, it's you who's overreacting like always. Just got to ask, if. Is this why – there a reason why you barely touch me these days?"

" _Yes_ ," Vergil hisses. "You are drunk all the time. I will not take advantage of you."

"That'd be a first, but whatever lets you avoid sleeping at night. Are we done with the shopping?"

"Yes." He sounds like they are done with several things.

It's not very surprising that their antagonism has attained the status of an open war now. None of their bullshit is ever the least bit new, but Dante would rather shove the banana up his ass dry than perform his usual spiel of groveling at Vergil's feet and brushing off his antics in order to help them reach an armistice, and maybe that's what he'll do because riding his usual phallus is out of the question for the foreseeable future, he reckons as they proceed to the checkout counters, good riddance. The cashier nearly jumps out her skin when he slams the bottle of slick on the conveyer with more gusto than strictly necessary. He tips.

Turns out they forgot to buy asparagus. Damn.

––

They don't talk about it. Arrêt à bon temps, disengage, retreat.

Back at the office, Vergil slinks into the upstairs chamber he only considers his whenever there's an argument and they've got to keep a distance, lest the entire building and anything else caught in the middle of their immature showdown is in danger of getting razed. For his part, Dante licks his wounds in a highly predictable and decisively antisocial manner as well. Tries to get drunk on scotch but runs out after a bottle or three, drinks the wine he intended to use in a pasta dish, ransacks every nook and cranny for more without accomplishing much and passes out in a dinghy little beer hall four blocks away after his liquid dinner has fallen off his mouth and onto the floor. In the morning or noon, the cleaning lady wakes him up by poking his ribs with a dirty mob, asking is he's alive and clearly expecting he's not. He is not quite sure what to answer. Since the water-logged ceiling above them isn't about to do the convenient thing of swallowing him up on the spot, he ends up scaring the shit out of her by growling and wishing her a happy Wednesday before making himself scarce. It's actually a Tuesday, he later learns.

The banknote he leaves on the table doesn't in truth seem like a fair compensation for anything, but these fine local establishments just have to stand him anyhow due to there being nowhere else for him to go. Even though his chronic alcoholism has mostly mutated into mere sporadic binging in the aftermath of the Qliphoth episode, old habits die hard and are predisposed to having renaissances – it's difficult to feed them when the reason for his drinking lives under the same roof, as in the roof of _DMC_ and not the one he was addressing his prayer to in the watering hole. Can't bring himself into a stupor under Vergil's watchful eye when it makes him feel ashamed for needing a crutch like the boozing, can't not soak his face when the silence they've spun between them is comparable to the one that haunted Mallet Island. Quite the quandary he's got there. Everyone knows Dante's hopelessly malfunctional, established facts are well established; it's, however, different to have it confirmed that his brother's seeing it as well. Vergil never says a word about his flasks because of course he doesn't, and because he doesn't – because he doesn't yell at him, tell him what a fuckup he is and how dissatisfied he is to witness it in the flesh, first row seats, because his presence is voiceless and nonjudgmental and withdrawn –, Dante must dull his senses in preparation since it's not confrontation per se he's afraid of, it's disappointment.

This continues for several nights, as is the custom: the more reticent party is holed up in his personal study cum bomb shelter, Dante sits by his phone waiting for a call that never comes till business hours have ended and it's socially and fiscally acceptable to intoxicate yourself, and while they occasionally move around the premises, their ships pass in the night. Odd how the modestly sized residence has suddenly stretched itself into a huge deserted wasteland. Here be nothing but lone wolves.

Unlike his weaker conspecifics, Vergil doesn't have to rely on self-medication to kill time. Putting it to good use, he occupies himself with making love to his sword several hours a day – battling imaginary foes, Judgement Cutting origami cranes, rehearsing ripostes, polishing stainless blood grooves as if anything could ever touch the two, the man and weapon. He's silent and not obnoxious about the training like he sometimes is, but since the house is listless and wears a muffler, every now and then Dante can hear him pierce the air or paper by flicking his wrist just so, take in a pleased breath when he's executed a perfect void slash after series of grueling balestras and lunges or whatever. It's likely that Dante couldn't stand the soundtrack of him doing his usual high-intensity exercising, the tight grunts and low wheezing, without jerking himself raw with his ear pressed against the wall, so it's a blessing that he's decided to keep quiet on purpose. Must be taking all his infamous self-restraint not to barge into the master suite and challenge him into a duel, as is his wont every three days or so at standard conditions. While Dante's occasionally plagued by the doubt that Vergil's keeping him around for sex, sometimes it dawns on him he's better suited to serve as his punching bag. Whatever, the asshole will just have to deal.

(He may attempt the jerking off nonetheless. Results are poor, he's been spoiled. Not very satisfying to have your pelvic floor stimulated when you can't ignore it's your own fingers keeping you company and wind up placing emphasis on your emptiness by trying to fill it with more of the same.)

Though Dante's feeling a tad antsy under the collar too, the majority of his restlessness is conveniently absent if he's entertained by pink elephants or a bad case of crapulence. Dancing with blue devils even when Vergil's not with him, ha ha ha. Guess the falling out is easier on him due to the decades when his dipsomania had been his best friend, practice. Apropos of friends: what'd complete the picture of his past would be having women check up on him to see if he's still drawing breath. Trish phones him once to ask about some mission or other but keeps it short, seemingly realizing there's trouble brewing at _DMC_ , again. Like always, he tells her to send his regards to Lady, who's been MIA ever since Dante made his latest triumphant return with a not-so-new stray in tow. It's a ritual by now; Trish won't say anything to her because she does not want to listen and Dante won't press further because she deserves to burn every bridge she considers rotten, won't paint the middleman into a corner where she has to choose sides in their unofficial friendship divorce, he'd lose. Won't try to insult Lady by claiming he gets why she's not thrilled about the twin sons of Sparda reuniting, though he might have a guess, having gathered her home life with Arkham was far from ideal. Still, he sends his greetings and thinks about her. Should she change her mind one day, he'll be there, all set for reconciliation. 

The world inside the snow globe of _Devil May Cry_ isn't exactly ideal either, yet the tempests raging inside its boundaries tend to set after a bout of inactivity if no additional earthquakes occur. Around the time clock ticks 120 hours post conflict, they meet at the bottom of the stair out of tacit agreement and forego exchanging apologies by exchanging flesh at luncheon, the doors unlocked: Vergil, vaguely apologetic in his eagerness, fucks him into a daze over his desk while he tries to shield the receiver from the lewd noises, the stifled moans and the wood creaking like it's falling apart with them, _ah, uh-huh, y-yeah, I'm pretty good at, uhm, dealing with demonic a-ap-appendages, no I'm not laughing at you I b-believe you just out of breath I ran a mile,_ because naturally this is when a client finds it appropriate to seek out his services. The bastard, the embodiment of clothed indecency, is wearing his socks and wifebeater and he thinks his whole life is a joke nobody's chuckling at in genuine amusement, only to overcome the awkward pauses; there being nothing else to do, he retaliates by biting Vergil's shoulder bloody once the customer finally hangs up on him, _l-listen call me later I, I'm actually in the middle of something, fuc–_ , thus soiling the fabric for good since neither of them will be coherent enough to give it a wash anytime soon. Vergil's nearly whining by the point he's reaching his climax inside Dante, thankfully not slowing down any in its throes, hips working fast, and is extremely annoying by making biting his lip look much more elegant than is fair. Generous enough to get him off too, though, Dante's grateful when he's limping around the room for smokes. They're more or less even after that. Avoidance and ignorance – how else would they handle their issues?

It would be futile to discuss the incident. He knows their arguments already and can hold the convo in his head, hold on a moment: Dante demands to be told what's truly going on. _Why are you stealing my clothes, Vergil?_ Vergil appeals to how he doesn't personally know anyone and thus can neither keep nor expose any secrets, which is true but unfair, and Dante would counter by stating he's emotionally stunted enough to accept the crap his own insecurities batter him with, yes, not in those exact words but in the meaning. Then his sibling, cowering behind his scowl, asks him why he's troubled by it. _What_ _do you want from me, Dante?_ Dante replies he doesn't know and even if he did, he could not spit it out, except he doesn't, say any of that. No, he cracks a dirty joke that makes the both of them angry, which leads to them storming off into different direction or leaves them hanging in the limbo between making up and making it worse without either of them taking measures towards either outcome. Dante can't communicate and Vergil can't stop doing his thing, putting him into a position where he needs to voice the stuff he doesn't have the guts to lay on the table for him to appraise. Wovon man nicht sprechen kann, darüber muß man schweigen.

It's a needless conversation, so they won't have it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first time during my stay here that I can say "it gets better very soon" without significant caveats, fancy that. Yes, this is supposed to be fluffy, please bear with me. 
> 
> There will be more notes later like said, but the German quoted is Wittgenstein, the famous ending words to his Tractatus ("One has to be silent about the things that one can't talk about" would be my working translation here). Do yourself a favour and read it if you haven't, philosophy can be fun :v 
> 
> Next up: Dante's harebrained attempts at solving the issue are about as successful as you'd expect. We'll actually learn what the issue is. Smut ensues, somehow. I may have given myself hyperglycemia.


	4. iv. Sinews

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is editing

Like any duelist worth his salt, Vergil excels at feints. He lays off after they've, uh, played a round of burying the hatchet at the office, for the lack of a more accurate turn of phrase; the villain may have donned Dante's apparel while nailing him to his desk, but the week that follows sees him wrapping himself exclusively in his own resurrection rags again, vest, leathers, maybe-navy coat. It's annoying to be around him when he wears the godforsaken outfit everywhere and for every occasion, but his broken-time attack, a ploy to make his opponent believe there's a permanent discontinuation in the activity for whatever reason, gives Dante's troops much needed space for regrouping. Needed, sorely: the truce can't be permanent, he's not that lucky. Vergil won't back off and can't be stopped once he sets his mind to something, you can just lay yourself in his way and hinder him until he figures out how to run over or through you. No, he will revert to pilfering trash made out of body bags and the tears of a gazillion sweatshop children as soon as the novelty of them being on speaking terms again has lost its shine. Dante will hemorrhage his remaining grey matter out unless he manages to change the entire game in time.

On other fronts, Vergil does switch policies somewhat, for a while. Judging by his behavior, witnessing Dante's coping mechanisms in their full-blown glory has been bugging him more than he's let on, and so it seems like he's trying to eliminate the need for them with his clumsy, entirely noncommunicative assistance, without ever realizing why Dante's resorted to them in the first place, that he's to blame. In the mornings, he makes suggestions on what they could do that day. Take a walk to the nearby lake and arrange an underwater fight if there are no pesky prying passersby or feed the ducks and take bets on which one of them swims the fastest. Visit the local art museum after opening hours, there's an exhibition of that Russian symbolist painter whose icons and kaleidoscopic demons Dante likes in town. Ransack a church for holy water and run experiments. Read some poetry together, pick apart the grammar and conjugate Latin third-declension semi-deponent verbs. Compare notes on Cerberuses – sorry, Cerberi. Make inventory of the devil arms Dante's yet to pawn to satisfy his creditors. Try to repair the ancient combat adjudicator Tony broke years ago. Come up with ways to farm demon-blood orbs. Explore the limits of Dante's limberness in his new special DT form. The unspoken implication is always that they will be doing none of those things if Dante won't stop vegetating on the figurative couch all day, drunk out of his gourd. 

It's a good strategy, Dante can see what he's going after, and it might work if his obsession with Vergil's obsession wasn't so darn obsessive. He mutters something evasive, makes his escape, and if Vergil's disappointed, he's not saying so. A week and he's a guest of honor in Dante's wardrobe again, stops putting forth cutesy date ideas, and it's like they never fought or made love on top of phone books and fast-food fliers, or ever. Dante has scored himself a _boyfriend_ yet can neither score nor tip said _boyfriend_ off about the stuff that's ailing him.

Of course, this isn't about the kleptomania, not really. Not at all, deep down. Dante acknowledges it's been clear from the start but maintains that coming to term with shit is not his style if it can be swept under a rug, yeah? There's no rug anywhere anymore, he's cornered in a household of fiber-eating moths. When the smoke from their latest bout of drama has well and truly cleared and they've reached the _well, we're still not bonking or hanging out much but at least there's no shouting_ stage of the cycle, he braces himself, tears of the bandage and admits the war has to evolve. Since the only trick he has up his sleeves is the unholy threesome avoidance, apathy and assault, he's fucked if he's unwilling to step up. Attack it is.

It's not the first time he's stolen something from his brother and it won't be the last, assuming they're to survive as a two-man unit. In a way he's stolen Vergil himself too by caging him into doomed partnerships, but that's neither here nor there. He procures the booty, and it is an ill omen by its own right that he's clever enough to avoid detection, he's not supposed to possess such a degree of cunning. Second thoughts make him worry his lip when it's time to dress up. Dante stands in front of a looking glass, clutching the bundle of cloth, and notes that the scent is stronger on it than, say, the sofa, predictably. Deep and musky but wafts in the air with a hint of electricity, a smattering of fresher ozone notes that belie their heritage. It's a manly smell, them. It hits him in the face with its unapologetic masculinity and kicks him in the nads for good measure. A little late to be having gay panic when Vergil's maleness has introduced itself to him time and time again, isn't it? But Dante isn't panicking, sorta, just… has gained a more thorough appreciation of what their relationship might look on the outside and what it could mean for them. They haven't discussed it. Are they dissimilar enough to be out on the streets as lovers? Are they fine with that, truly? Vergil gives negative fucks about the opinions of others, but then he goes and gets spooked by a nigh-innocent come-on, less than a peck, why? He's a private bastard, but exactly how private does he want to keep the affair? What does Dante want? Dante doesn't know what he wants, or does, he wants to be marked and to claim and to belong and to possess and it kills him that it's so damn hard to leave indelible impressions on a self-healing canvas, but that's not even in the same neighborhood than what he's able to handle. He dreads the talk because it can and will reveal things about himself he'd rather not deal with, like the chances of him being too messed up mentally to be an actual _boyfriend_ to Vergil, but that doesn't change the fact they've got to have it, sooner than later, he sees it now.

Today, already? Mm, perhaps not, he oughtn't to bite more than he can chew at once, or, well, some gluttony is unavoidable but not to the degree that he'll choke before any words leave his pipe. Baby steps – put out the most acute of fires first, then see if the building is still standing in the end and if the foundations seem wonky. Must be a reason why Vergil relies on indirect means with his (mixed) messages, right? Dante will humor the habit by making a gesture. It gets them on the same page or at least within the covers of the same book, then the topic can be broached. _Why my clothes? Will you listen to me if I tell you why it doesn't seem right to see you in them?_

Action, action's good. Attaque, allez. He straightens the piece of clothing and arranges it between him and the framed glass to estimate the fit. Looks wretched, honestly. It's –

Vergil has filled out in the relative sense. On the imaginary acres of their childhood home, the first time Dante saw him as himself after twenty-five fucking years, he was drawn out, gaunt, fatigued despite his blatant exhilaration about having broken every rule in the universe to haul his corpse back among the living. He hid it, his deceptively great fighting form hid it, yet Dante could tell there weren't too many ounces of fat sprinkled between his bones, tendons, wiry brawn and stubbornness. Constant dying does that to a guy. That was then, the initial kinks have been straightened. Emaciated is now compact, trim, lean, lanky, slender, lithe, a thousand other cliched adjectives. So very different than him, he laments as he the pulls the piece around his shoulder. Vergil's body is a switchblade, Dante is a cudgel. The swordsman favors speed and accuracy, the brute profits from stockier architecture. Organic development takes place whether or not it's asked to. It's natural that their builds should reflect their utility.

The first time Dante saw Vergil-Vergil after their teens, he was positively swimming in his coat. Months later, the same mantle has gotten close-fitting. It licks its master's non-existent curvature so hungrily Dante's jealous at times. A second skin, made for him from scratch and inception. They're the same, Dante and the coat, yet like most romantic rivals, they don't get along that well.

The speculum reveals that Vergil's new but beat-up overcoat does not fit Dante. Shock and horror. When you think about it, it resembles a women's bolero, all sleeves and surprisingly little substance; the peculiar collar-lapel area means it won't close even on skinny dudes. On Vergil, it manages to be puritanical due to the millions of layers he nestles his bones in. On Dante, hm, less so. He's got an undershirt but the blasted thing is squishing his bosom into new and unwanted shapes and making it look lewd. Hah. Only the thinnest of fabrics on him and there's still a constricting feeling in his chest.

Yeah, it doesn't fade. On the contrary, it stares him in the eye more blatantly, jeering. The why, the reason he's been trying to put an end to the madness before it ends them.

Discomfort. The coat should fit him better because Vergil's coats used to fit him better. They've become a circus act, The Marvelous Unidentical Identical Twins, and costumes are a neon marker underscoring their acquired differences. Which they would've acquired in any case and on every timeline. Just like Mom couldn't prevent them growing aslant like the sunflowers she forgot to prop up one spring, no matter how many times she shooed Dante out of Vergil's bed or castigated Vergil for giving his sibling nightmares with his stories, they could not have kept themselves uniform forever. Would what Mundus did to him truly be any easier to bear if it had not given Dante a clone who inspects the world several inches above him while wearing a stranger's mask? Probably not. Probably just different. Dante's mouth fills with iron and doubt.

It's the faces he's really hurt by. They would've had those regardless of training or differing tastes in beards. Fuck, even the Angelo had retained the features in spite of Vergil's poor tortured body having ceased to exist under the cuirass. The Angelo died and so did Vergil's old face and Dante couldn't recognize his anymore because it had already mutated as there was nothing to compare it to.

He hates being reminded of this crap, simple as that. The stealing can't continue.

Wiping his stinging lips on his own shirt, he waits a few seconds to ensure the small wound he's bitten heals and buckles up. Vergil's outrage at the robbery is so loud he can hear it from the future, and that's great, it'll give him an opening and they'll talk.

What's handy in times like these is that he's been letting their telepathy run undampened instead of tinkering with it and flying under the radar, doing whatever it is that he does to when Dante's not accompanying him. 'S nice, having this constant intelligence stream of his whereabouts without having to think about it. Not clue how to describe it properly to anyone who's not experiencing it, might liken it to water; his own consciousness and spatial awareness expands to all directions with the gravity of a lake, and around the verges, there's a foreign current swirling around, pushing into his basins and mixing into them, paintings concentric circles on the surface. At times, he can even detect Yamato as a smaller ring in the pond, supposes she's been inside him just like her wielder. Now, Dante stands on the bottom of the ocean and listens to the mass above him, the resounding sensation pointing him towards the goal.

His efforts miss the mark, passé, not because he can't find it but because it doesn't yell at him when it's shot at. Vergil, the metaphorical arrow sticking out from his forehead, raises a brow at the outfit once and then seems to find the thievery as interesting and worthy of notice as the ubiquitous cracks in wallpaper. After a couple of days, he begins to leave the top on the hanger closest to Dante's side of the bed, a suggestion and an invitation: _do wear it, I am not bothered, it is yours to take if you want it._

Vergil doesn't think anything's wrong. Dante drinks till he stops noticing or caring about the residual scent on his pelt. Another Monday at casa _Devil May Cry_.

The hangover subsides eventually and he's still in one piece. Rats. Guess it's sixes and sevens now, he's doomed to take a flyer. Pride is among the few currencies Vergil recognizes, so if Dante cashes his – provided that there really is a lick of dignity anywhere on his person, it's debatable – into chips and lies down on the gameboard naked, maybe he'll finally get listened to.

––

Dante does get naked, sort of. He's out of options. It makes sense in the moment.

Don't attribute to malice what can be explained by stupidity, he tells himself for the hundredth time that week while stripping in his bedroom, hungering for distilled courage he can't have if he's serious about seeking out any meaningful interaction with Vergil. His naked refection on the wall looks doubtful, but fuck it, this is a last-ditch effort and as such is slipshod by definition. His brother's not the enemy, just stunted, and is he's too thick in the head to understand what he's trying to signal to him, then the only alternative is to spoon feed him. Failing to get them talking now means Dante will be spiraling into literal pants-off madness, thus he, acting against his own nature, will do his utmost to be blunt and direct, but before he can get to that, he'll need a conversation starter. Provocation it is. He snatches the coat from the hook, throws it on his otherwise bare carcass and ignores the mirror's skepticism. Least his backside doesn't appear to be covered in cobwebs due to lack of visitation.

Vergil, sitting on the sofa near the front door, hears him approaching, but he only raises his nose from his codex when he notices something's off, that he's behaving oddly by halting at the foot of the stairs and not launching into inane chatter. His focus turns rapt in a millisecond. Letting him measure him and determine how much of threat this confrontation poses for him, Dante takes stock of his outfit, the pronoun applying to either of them. Vergil's outfit, Dante's threads. The saturated orange of the shirt is in dispute with his sickly complexion and the jeans only stay up on him because they're two decades old. For a long minute, neither of them says anything.

Dante briefly deliberates on prefacing his sermon with something like _Figures this'd do it. Know you only pay attention to me if I'm nude_. He won't. Vergil would only reply by saying _I always pay attention to you, whether or not I want to_ and miss the entire point either accidentally or on purpose, which would goad Dante into a useless fury that he'd have to take out on him, not productive. Anything more suitable isn't forthcoming, his imagination went to making such a grand entry. Unexpectedly, Vergil decides to break the ice.

"I am not quite sure what you are trying to provoke me into, Dante," he admits. He's tapping a pencil against his knee, the beat perfectly regular. One, two, three four, one.

"Neither am I. Is this the right time for us to have that conversation we've been putting off?"

"Not exactly. Forgive me if I am being too forward, but you do look like you are planning to climb me two seconds from now."

Dante counts to two. One, he's relieved he's not met with concrete and hostility. Two, what remains of his planning is neither entirely flaccid nor concealed very well in his sorry getup. Vergil clearly sees it hang between his legs, his consideration keeps drifting from his face towards the waistline of the coat. How atypically indecisive of him.

Three. "Would you let me?" Dante asks, resists Satan's temptations and does not make remarks about his eyes being up here, above his rack and the rest.

Vergil studies him silently. One, two, three four, one.

"I would, yes."

"Good. Come here." And then he does.

Dante's aware it's a ridiculous scene. Yes, it's not how human beings initiate sex, and yes, it's not what he was supposed to initiate, they've indeed got it backwards, making out first and then, hope so, making the actual efforts that lead to making up in functional unions. San fairy ann. They're starved for what they've come to regard as natural and ordinary, no reason why they shouldn't minimize their aggravation before the couple's therapy session. Vergil doesn't grab him by the lapels, that'd be a lie, but he does caress the flaps and flatten them against his trunk with enough intent to bruise a ripe plum, and it's where his hands stay when he leans into him.

At the outset, Dante allows himself to be kissed with calmness and modesty like they aren't both flying apart at the seams for more, but the three-minute mark sees him nudging Vergil's lips with his tongue until they open into a gasp, and then it's Dante kissing him, pure unadulterated desire imposing itself on a willing target. He moans weakly, aroused, strains his neck when Dante pursues it to plant a love bite below his jaw, is so disarmingly enthusiastic to get them back mouth on mouth that Dante, infatuated from head to tail despite everything, is melting inside his skull and bleeding affection into him. Night and day, the current mood and the punishing intensity of their previous office table encounter. Both are great, let it not be said that Dante doesn't get his rocks off to rougher treatment, but he's missed, hm, romance.

Not one to be outdone by any necking Dante's doing, Vergil tries to cup one of his pectorals but, realizing the space between the bust and fabric is impossibly narrow, chooses to cop a feel down south instead. He fits his hand around Dante's dick without hesitation, and while it's such a ballsy, aggressive move that only a self-absorbed bastard like him would consider it classy, he's feathery light, the tap gentle. Vergil works Dante with lazy strokes, barely even moving his palm up or down on the shaft, still returning his kisses, sighing sweetly for him; the flimsy pressure, the awareness that it's Vergil holding him, combined with the making out is enough to get Dante hard at an awkward speed. Doesn't really make the the situation more awkward, kind of does the opposite. He finds security and tacit acceptance in their contact, not that he isn't uncertain about what he should be doing with himself apart from driving his twin out of his mind with his tongue since the prick likely wouldn't appreciate him going for his cock as boldly as he did, ends up yanking his belt loops, fiddling each button on the shirt open. It's okay that he's getting turned on by this, he can have it, it's alright.

Things proceed from there. Saying Vergil tackles him is an exaggeration, but he does help him to splay himself on his rear, then kneels before him on the floor. Dante struggles with getting out of the sleeves, the fabric gets a little entangled in various appendages, so he rearranges the tails too until they form a fan of brown?, dark gold?, Dante can't do colors all that well, lining underneath him. Seemingly acting in the interests of the mantle, preventing wrinkles or whatever, Vergil might be more concerned with getting a view of his buns and anus in actuality, call it a hunch. Dante's heartrate picks up at the inspection, but he covers it up by brushing Vergil's loins with a knee, decrees he's stiff enough that they can forego further foreplay.

Cutting the chase to the priorities, Dante attacks the jeans next. Normally, he kinda loves Vergil being dressed because it's such a power trip, heady, a demonstration: here, behold this composed, straight-laced man, so eager to please you and take you that he can barely unzipper his fly before getting to it. You make him like this. He is a mess because of you, you ruined destroyed killed dragged him through hell, and now you have him eating from the palm of your hand, spellbound. Nudism, of course, doesn't exactly obscure their novel differences: only time will tell if exposure will force Dante to get accustomed to new status quo. Fact is, Vergil on top of him is sexier when clothed, truly the weapon he's supposed to be, and more human without a stich. However, the latter option dispels the last remains of nightmares circling around his shoulders. In the buff, it becomes clear his frame doesn't house the Angelo anymore, he's no longer a slave, becomes just Vergil. Not a, not the, not even Dante's. Vergil. No qualifiers, he's a self-sufficient entity. When he is his own person through and through, first and foremost, he's also free to dedicate himself to anything and anyone he wishes. Won't promise to stay but is content to be together at present. Is his conditionally.

Excited, too. "You'll steal literally anything if you think it's mine, but you still won't have the decency to wear fucking _boxers_ ," Dante, horny with pent-up frustration, groans as he slides his hand into Vergil's pants and spends a lifetime palming his erection. Feels so long (and warm, and responsive, alive) because dealing with the fastening is taking him goddamn forever 'cause his other hand is refusing to cooperate, keeps shaking, his consciousness is split between the denseness of his stalk, the thermal energy migrating to his own belly, the tempo hammering inside his ribcage, the piece-of-shit button caught in the dang grommet, which takes joy in mocking him until giving in. Vergil's likely amused, yet he lets Dante pull out his penis without a protest or any unnecessary comments on his technique. Breathes out, relaxed, looks so nice and hefty in Dante's hand. At long last –

"Why is it such a problem to you?" the idiot asks out of the blue, several minutes late. He sounds honestly perplexed, which is, god, insufferable. Oblivious or pretending, he continues: "If nudity bothers you that much, we can always stop." His true feelings about the matter are thick and flushed rosy, not quite in agreement with his words. The color becomes him better than Dante's garments ever could.

"Just sayin'. Ignore me and help me get these off," he replies, tugging at the waistband, hurry up, quit dallying, get undressed. Vergil swats the claws away, gets up with a huff and kicks the last of his clothing off all by himself while Dante's more or less spacing out, captivated by the little bobs and nods his dick does when in motion. Hypnotic. In such state, he's easily flattened on his back by a pair of hands on his collar bones. Their owner looms above him sans any stolen articles and Dante instantly likes him a lot more for it.

"I'm – remember your coat, we're going to soil it if we keep going like this," he points out in a rare burst of clarity. Likely the last one he'll have before his cerebral functions shut off. A weird thing to spend it on, but what can he say, he's courteous to a fault.

"Probably, yes," Vergil agrees, which could be decoded into English as _Do I look like I care?._ Okay then.

Dante stays put, waiting for him to apply himself. He's crawled on top of him to… Suck face with him a bit longer? Let him throat his semi? Finish what he started and whack him off to completion? Give him his tune-up, get him ready, have him sing his praises around a pinkie and then, one can hope, something else?

"Go on," his self-appointed tormentor says, making the vaguest of gestures with his chin. It lands on Dante's groin, just in case his meaning wasn't clear enough otherwise. "Have you not been trying to put on a show for me by playing dress-up since yesterday?"

"The past few days at least, you mean. Don't be a jerk," Dante snorts, impressed by how stable his voice is when everything else in him is going haywire at the challenge. Wants to see him do his own prep, does he? Dante's not opposed to being one to walk his body through it, not even when he should maybe take issue with Vergil getting all bossy, as though all this was _his_ idea. Nothing wrong with wanking if it's not merely a shoddy workaround for curing loneliness; Vergil's ability to be a cocktease can't be competed with, but if he's ordering a performance, that's what he'll get. Dante rakes through the pockets of the coat blindly until hah, the lubricant he was personally offended by back at the store rolls out. _Yeah, I came prepared, problem?_ he leers at Vergil's questioning eyebrow, dares him to say anything when he's going to profit from the thoughtfulness. Mise en place in order, he spreads himself a bit wider, partly for more wiggle room and mostly for the benefit of his audience.

Vergil's gaze meets his levelly. He seats himself into a neat samurai pose with his shins tucked underneath him while Dante pours lube all over his mitts and spills it on his torso because fuck gravity, his isn't the most convenient position in the world for this kind of thing. Not the most inconvenient either, though, since they've found out his old joints are surprisingly bendy and his ankles are glad to make acquaintance with his ears if his flexibility will get its reward, but he digresses. With a hearty exhale, he leads his hands between his legs, one of them keeping his buttocks apart and the other setting out to explore his skin. Wetter is better, he presumes as he slathers copious amounts of the jell on his taint and rim, gets his hair sticky, before beginning to feed it inside his body, ah. Vergil mostly appears as unwavering as ever, detached, above bodily responses, and his posture negates his déshabillé, but his irises don't lie, overcast as they are by darkness when Dante stars slipping in a finger.

He resists the intrusion a little without meaning to, too agitated to fall lax and flagging due to the initial shock, so he exaggerates and flaunts his tightness by slowing down, gets the final hinge in after a while. Hello, there you go. He is tight, indeed, clutches around the intrusion firmly. The sensation of the lube seeping down his tush towards the coat is somewhat distant in comparison to the density of his own flesh surrounding him. Details like that rev him up, needless to say, grant him a heightened awareness of what's going to happen once he's pliable enough for two. He'll reshape himself in use, become elastic, molten; it's what he always does when something has to give, yet unlike with everything else, he won't lose sight of himself now when he has a crowd keeping him grounded.

Input, output, repeat, watch his brother watch him. At least there seems to be no commenting this time – silence is preferable, especially when the alternative would be his praise. The compliments cling to him, make him feel dirty and undeserving of Vergil's esteem. Irrational? Definitely. As is, he's doing fine; that part is evidenced by how rapidly he's swelling back to where he was earlier. Anyone's guess if his anatomy is reacting to the physical stimulation alone or is thrilled to be exposed to his company, whose restraint he'd envy if it didn't promise him a good time. If only could they get on with it already. Dante has half the mind to do a sloppy rush job on purpose, just toy with himself a little, too delicately, submit to one or two digits only. Slacken himself insufficiently so that when it's Vergil's inserted in him, the friction will smart as if he were entering him cold and dry. The temptation is there, manifests in his hurried shoves, yet it isn't in his right to mete out his punishments – the second finger sinks into his ass and passes through the obstacle of his sphincter with some caution, but after a few decelerated moments of thrusting it in along with its sibling, he begins to scissor the two more broadly, diligent, applies more pressure against his walls and pushes against the gland that, oh, has him shifting, produces keener inhalations. He's steamy all over, his cheekbones, his neck, the warmness he's plunging into hugging him like a sleeve.

Soon enough to be slightly embarrassing, Dante has three fingers working in and out of his hole and a feverish, undignified rhythm rocking his pelvis, four, soon, soon, more, Vergil. Something's vibrating behind his pecs like it's about to splinter; his own movements are rougher than Vergil's would be, should he be the one to prepare him for his cock; fatter digits, cruder, but also shorter, not quite at home, not as familiar; his knees twist as far as they can go to give his hand a better access, then turn inward again when he hits his sweet spot nearly the right way; all that, and he's still less ashamed about the visuals he presents as he's fingering himself in front of him than the blush that must be glowing with the subtlety of a traffic light, all the more radiant because it's what Vergil has decided to look at, his worthless treacherous face that refuses to hush up. His attempts at drawing his focus elsewhere – to the obscene graphics, squelches, how supple he is, come on he's able to take it now, he is –, are dead on arrival. Dante gets noisier, his thorax shrinking and flittering freely, he shudders, tilts his neck to the left to shield some of his neediness from him. _Don't look at me when I want you_.

But that's the point. Whys behind the exercise: he's both laying out his feelings and confronting Vergil's tangible attraction to him. Can't establish a connection to someone else if he's in desynch with himself, so he has to go skin deep in his own want, then make the ends meet between them. Whatever, he's done introspecting and would rather allow Vergil to make use of his self-examining than play coy. His hands retreat reluctantly, but it's worth it to display the results, there's visible swallowing to witness. Almost there. Dante wipes his goopy fingers on Vergil's lower stomach to introduce some old-fashioned fraternity into this scene of brotherly love and stuff. Vergil doesn't seem to mind until he threads his pubic hair and his knuckles graze his dick, entirely by accident of course; impervious as he'd like to be, his mouth goes slanted and his eyes flutter closed for a sec. When he regains control of them, Dante's already wrapping his hand around his girth, traveling entire length from the crown to the base in one fell swoop, such a comfortable weight. _Prise de fer_ , his delirious mind supplies, taking-the-blade. Stupid swordplay metaphors keep harassing him. Vergil's reaction hovers between a growl and a wheeze, not low enough to be the former and so full-bodied that it can't count as the latter either. Sexy. Dante attaches himself to his flanks next, free thumb kneading the V-shaped lines carved on his belt none too gently.

"Stop it, you are distracting me," Vergil says.

"From what? You're not doing anything. I'm growing old here." Since Dante's flirty whining receives no answer, he cants his pelvis up and keeps yapping and prodding: "Are you too green to know what to do with this, should Uncle Dante straddle you and show you the ropes?"

Now Vergil shudders, not in arousal. "Never attempt dirty talk again."

"Aww, you sure? My impression is, you're a fan of hearing what it feels like when you're moving inside me." Vergil casts him a long-suffering look, but he could swear he senses the prominent dorsal vein jump under his palm as he grasps the organ more firmly for emphasis. He maneuvers his shanks past Vergil's sides and crosses them loosely behind his back, hooking him in place, reaches for the momentarily abandoned tube.

"Yes. Think about your options carefully, I refuse to lay you as longs as you do."

"I fail to see the difference between that and this, it's not like you're currently laying the pipe or anything. Getting the job done by my lonesome here."

"Will you stop talking if I help you?"

"Never," Dante laughs airily, tastes the fond exasperation. He's got more than enough encouragement in the shape of the dick anyhow. He thumbs the head to coat it ready with slick, then runs a hand down the foreskin to take hold of the shaft and uncover the glans, an attractive darkened pink. With the prepping, lubing it in its entirety isn't absolutely vital, but Dante's doing it because it must feel good for him. Guiding Vergil between his thighs elicits a shiver, yet they're still hardly going anywhere. Instead of doing the sensible thing, his brother seems to be okay with the modest amount of skin contact, his glans resting against Dante's opening until the tremors make the tip of his cock slip away towards the coccyx, wrong direction. Dante bites back his curses, shifts his hips to reorient them, rubs the penis over the edges in a circle, lets it skim along the groove between his cheeks. Just teasing them both now, puckering up around the emptiness, no intention to sink down on him on his own initiative. No, he's merely letting Vergil feel the hollow in order to remind him of what's at his disposal, hot for him, always and especially now. A question in his hunger, too: _prêt_ , ready?

Albeit Dante himself wouldn't object to being told to shut up by hands over his neck, does not mind foreign objects in his throat either, Vergil seems to prefer hearing him, how weird is that; even the mindless porn star drivel tends to be well received, _harder, Vergil, fuck me_ , because it's an acknowledgement, yes, it's Vergil fucking him and he might be little crazy about it. The fingers that settle on his mouth in the present merely trace the curve of his amor's bow, test how pliant his lower lip is to his touch and find it plump from his earlier kisses, but none of them break in to press his tongue silent and flat against the bottom. His wrist creaks as Dante seizes it. He grazes the somewhat protruding bones with his teeth, _glisé_ , pulls off his glove with them. _Bed me_ , he's begging. 

He receives no warning he's about to get manhandled in turn: his elbow cracks when the hand he was just holding tears itself free and wrenches his arms behind his spine. His _ouch_ is so breathless and turned on it's indistinguishable from moaning, and it's a wonder if his pupils aren't blown to hell and back by now, just like his sibling's. He lifts his butt when he's asked to by a finger running on his side, lets the textile he's lying on be pulled into liberty too. Vergil's grip is brutal as he restrains Dante with the sleeves of the coat, his words silkily cruel, _behave_ , he breathes, _patience_. They're aware the knot he's fashioned wouldn't keep Dante down in itself, yet the fact it's there has him immobilized, his head clouding in white. Blades, fingertips, scrutiny, any penetration gets him transfixed. Could make a racket, rebel like he usually does when met with authority, flip them around for a quick ride – could, but for once, Dante lets them enjoy getting what they want without a fight. He's at his mercy, and on the reverse, Vergil is at his. Equivalent exchanges between equals. Or the chain's just impeding his blood flow and he's getting woozy, who cares.

Now that he's in charge, Vergil takes a better position between Dante's legs, propping him up on his own thighs. He holds his pelvic area still with one hand, sensing how eager it is to grind against him, while using the other one to apply a little pressure on his cock and align it with his tail end. Dante breathes out and relaxes his belly, showtime, he's boiling. Nevertheless, feels his pulse hitch and chest clamp in anticipation when his brother eases into him, pressing inside slowly but surely, practiced confidence. Within a few heartbeats, he's lodged in him from the tip to the point where the head of his dick expands in diameter and his corona flares out at a lovely, lovely angle. There he halts, gathers himself. It's understandable: Dante's accommodated him so many times by now, mapped the dimensions of his sex, accepted him to the brim, and yet there's always a bit of resistance, a need to adjust to the intensity of the strain, no matter how limp and open and welcoming he is. Vergil's had him in demon form too, the swell of the phallus he's nestling moving under his hide like it's come to life inside his stomach and is about to collide with another organ, so it's not really about his subconsciousness being constantly surprised how big he is rather than how incredible it is that it keeps happening, that they get to have this and that he has permission to relish in how careful Vergil's careful breathing has become. Seemingly lost in thought, he rubs hand on Dante's navel as if he could trace the curve of his erection through the abdominal wall. Somehow, the gesture has a more intimate character than anal itself, funny.

Unraveling at the hems, Dante inclines his jaw upwards to invite his brother into a heated wet kiss. The effect is instantaneous; the tension strung between Vergil's feet and elbows melts into another shiver and the line of his mouth softens when licked. He's docile in an instant, summons Dante to dive deeper. They have a different way of being pliant and willing to be claimed, but the urge is common. Man, Vergil's just… really into kissing. His eagerness could make a guy think he prefers making out to, you know, getting his dick wet in his partner. Dante pretends to be affronted, nips him with his canines. C'mon, c'mon, action, less tenderness, he gets it, he gets the message, he wants to get closer.

Rather than let his hips, thighs and cock do all the heavy lifting, Vergil pulls Dante flush against him in a single, steady slide which is a little too swift to be comfortable but too calm to burn. As he pushes himself deeper gradually, his upper legs flex with effort, trying to keep his pace even until he's fully enveloped in him and the brief urgency thaws into indulgence of his own whims. His mouth is a glossy red, slightly open between his breaths; his expression hardens into something that borders on pained as he feels Dante out leisurely, luxuriating, the fullness of time throbbing in their veins. Dante breaks into pearling laughter as he's filled since he promised not to go quiet and because he can't scratch him with his nails, and it's difficult not to croon in any case. Vergil is a thick, demanding quantity inside him, impossible to tune out, solid, thawing his body into yielding to him, good, it'd be so good if he actually fucked him now.

At first he maintains the tortuously cautious pattern that leaves Dante panting in exertion, pulls out until only the cap is sheathed, glides back in, finds him plush and quivering with impatience. Dante inhales, feels him reseat himself, past the _foible_ , the upper third of his erect dick, to the _forten_ , the bottom third, all the way to the hilt. Surrounded by familiar compression and momentarily content, Vergil takes a breather, then withdraws again, breathes in as he pushes against Dante, thorough in his quest to be an utter prick and to get off on making himself responsible for him. Couldn't he be more normal and jump at the chance to drive his broad rude dick in him at full tilt instead of driving him mental with his refusal to make it painful, simply pound away, reduce him to flesh for ten minutes? He won't get hurt. Vergil knows what Dante craves better than he does himself, but what he has begun to understand about him is that he's tasked himself with giving him what he _needs_. Discipline, a degree of kindness. There are fewer lies here; corps-à-corps, he'll admit Vergil is right by insisting on being careful with him in a way he's never been with himself, at best negligent and at times actively reckless. Theirs are not the only faces that look similar – enjoying pain or thinking he does and believing he deserves it and cannot function without are two separate pictures he can't tell apart. He'll appreciate it, not yet but post-coitus.

Mid-intercourse, he'd like to hang onto something and, more importantly, have his cock jerked. It's of course not going to happen until the devil wills it, and no, playing Houdini and wiggling out of his cuffs without approval still isn't an option. Satisfied with his cooperation, Vergil grasps his haunch to keep him steady and finally, finally begins to rock into him in a consistent but less timid rhythm, having warmed his muscles into sleek compliance. Wonder if there's something to his theory of Vergil running a slightly higher temperature than him. The thought is idle and gets discarded in short order due to more acute concerns.

"Touch me," Dante growls. No more games. He's contracting and dripping precum on his paunch, he has to shoot his load stat, it's been too long.

"I am touching you," is his reply. Obnoxious.

"You know what I mean!"

"Do I? Use your words."

Hypocrite, he's a bloody hypocrite, Dante can't stand him. Dante's very invested in his orgasm, though.

"Vergil, touch my goddamn dick, I've waited enough."

"No. Be polite, they say it's beneficial in relationships."

"First time I, I heard you preach communication. This a dream? Pinch me." Vergil pinches him, thanks, now his balls hurt. Anyway – no, he's not dreaming, this isn't the cabinet on Mallet, but jesus fuck, it's the porch. They're mating almost on top of the entrance mat, they forgot the door again. "Is – Is the door locked?"

Vergil's too far gone for his characteristic ambiguity. "No," he says, gives a deep push inside him and effectively shuts them both up, excluding the pleased noises Dante keeps making at him. The prospect a random client could walk in at any time to catch the fabled demon hunter laid bare, tied up and subdued by his business-associate-cum-next-of-kin triggers a shameful spark in his groin even when he's convinced Vergil's convinced they won't get caught – it's preposterous to assume he'd be fine with anyone else ever getting a view of Dante's junk in action. Sod reality, he'll just savor the possessive kick the fantasy generates in secret; an outsider watching how he's got his twin under his thumb, turning over so much of his self-control in the process of making Dante lose his.

"Shi– fuck, Vergil," he croaks, legs opening to get all of him in him. Losing it for sure. He's scrambling for syllables that escape him quickly enough that he has no idea what he's trying to express, less than usual. Probably gets the point across anyway, because this is the point of it all, getting to have every inch of the attention he's been dying for his entire life. It'd be nice to be able to tell him he's grateful for it, him catering to his insecurities. His best shot is working with him, loosen up, wide on his shaft, clench, preserve their strange balance.

Tonight, there's enough noise for two in the apartment even though Vergil's mostly silent, like he always is when touched but not tortured by someone who didn't deserve to hear him sing. Hardly matters anyway if he looks as smitten as he does now. Dante would call the grip on his waist crushing if he didn't find it such a turn on, wish it to be even rougher, his skin breaking and Vergil gaining entry to him in every possible way. Vergil has plenty of entry now and he's squandering it, barely moving out and the base of his cock hitting the rim each time he brings his pelvis forward, dead set on the goal that Dante gets to enjoy every millimeter of him, freak. He can read Dante's implicit request on his gooey tension-taut abs even if he didn't notice him flexing his biceps, the cross of his wrist getting increasingly disagreeable. Its denied.

Dante throws his head back in dismay. He senses a droplet of sweat run down the straining tendon and loses track of it somewhere around the dip between his clavicles. There's an unhappy grunt above him, almost gets lost in the panting. _Don't cover yourself from me_. It's been a long time since he stopped being shy about his desire to have his ass fucked, but Vergil's permissiveness is still a tough beast to face. 

Quid pro quo? Shuddering, Dante orders his twin to give him a hand. Vergil keeps denying him. "I have trouble hearing you," he says mercilessly, pressing against his prostate with an unnecessary amount of force and precision to highlight how he understands what he needs from him but prefers not to comply. Too many four-letter words?

Dante's moans muddle the next command, _you're such a liar you fuck_ or something akin to those lines. "Vergil, do it or I'll, cry, and – ah, ruin your coat," he continues, no effect.

It's the spontaneous _please_ that gets things going. Figures. Should've started purring ages ago, he's shameless enough. Jury's out on whether Vergil acts the way he does because he's horribly literal or because he's got to be contrary if given a chance, but it's unquestionably Not Cute, Why Is He Like This. Instead of liberating Dante from his hell by attending to his erection himself, he loosens the knot so that Dante can sneak an arm free. One of them, can't tell which but he's practically ambidextrous, would not be of interest if his libido wasn't so particular about being beaten off with unscarred palms. They haven't spoken about that either, but of course it is the right one he's now humping, superficially unwounded; it's as deeply marked as its duplicate on the left, only by memories it can't convert into permanent visual cues.

Never mind. Dante helps himself with a clumsy fist, shallow motions, his grip slippery with haste, focusing his strokes on the tip and spreading his precum around just to oil the length up as much as possible. He runs a loose, hurried tempo, but it while it's almost enough to relieve him, it also makes Vergil's movements more distant – there's a dissonance between what he's doing to himself and what's being done to him, an old problem. They aren't conversing. Dante's done or imagined doing this a thousand times and then some, he'll fix it. Gets a little faster, acclimates, lets their desires synchronize, there, just like that, feels like he's an echo of a mirror that is now alive in him. Looking up, he can see Vergil pleasure himself with his body, reciprocating. In out in, breathe, out in out; they share the two sides of the same feeling and meet in the middle.

There's a hand in his hair. Vergil slicks the strands back from where they've been clinging to his sweaty forehead. His contemplative look is merely a facade; Dante can sense how all his thoughts zero in on the space where they join inside him. Every thrust and twitch he compresses himself around is a vocal clue about him being close, and his jaw is remarkably restrained, overcompensation. Vergil's happiness always looks a little sad. Vergil always kisses like it's the last time. Breaks his heart, always.

Vergil, darling. Dante has no words for what he does to him, in good and bad, so he calls out to him the only way he can, voice low, harsh. "Brother."

Vergil lets out a breathy gasp, draws his back tight and comes, his warmth in Dante honest, wet and true. Pulling Dante's hips against his, he pushes himself as deep as he can go in a fluid motion, but his spine seems about as flexible as marble. When he fumbles for an inelegant kiss, panting more openly than when he had to contain himself, his lip bleeds against Dante's. He tastes desperate. Dante wants to touch him so bad, tensed midriff, shaky thighs, reddened ears, the thrum of his beat resonating on his sternum.

Decisions, decisions. Really, he wants to top out while Vergil is still sliding in him even more and the raw eroticism of him coming so unannounced has murdered him to dead with its hotness, so he grinds down on him to get him moving again, fucks his fist noisily, bucks into it to the point where both his wrists are cramping, carries on pumping his unrestrained hand with an ugly sob. Vergil keeps fucking and kissing him through it, hands on temples and cheeks, and in the end, Dante's dick is rubbing against his stomach as much as his own fingers.

After some flailing, he's worn out his release to a point where he's only affected by the aftereffects, labored respiration and the occasional spasm. Vergil sags against Dante's breast a bit, nose buried in his hair, scenting himself on and in his hard-won trophy; he lets Dante's body support his tired weight, considerate enough not to lay it on him on its entirety but carrying only some of it himself on the elbows and arms propped next to his head. Stealing, again: he's so determined to siphon his sated energy, as if he's soaking up sunrays, that it wouldn't be too surprising if he ended up rumbling under his breath. There's something markedly feline about his satisfaction even though he's not bossed around by any biological imperatives, goes a little feral only because he wants to, because his affection is greedy and possessive. Dante would snicker if he could make his gills behave. Tricky to get any air in his lungs when he's short of breath and squished, impossible to establish a stable connection between his brain and other components when he's still spacey with the rush, the sore swollen slippery state of his being, sluggish, one arm bearing the brunt of them under his back, their concordant heartbeat a rush in his ears, their fit snug and secure. It's uncomfortable. Dante holds him tighter.

It costs Vergil a lot to be like this with him. He's made of destructive, unrelenting zeal, as animated as any force of nature and constantly alert to the point of paranoia and beyond. Simultaneously, he's a man in love, brittle because it shows. Unsure how to reconcile the two, Dante treasures his defenselessness like he would a precious stone, or the way he kept his portion of the pendant, which he knew to be powerful but never used, only held it close and reminded himself of its significance. Admired the craft, not because he intended to sell the amulet for scraps or harness its strength to serve him, was aware of its objective value but more charmed by what it meant to him personally. Entertained the notion it could've been his forever when anything could have taken it away any moment. It's beautiful to him now, Vergil's vulnerability, but it might not be there tomorrow; maybe tomorrow never comes for a decade again. As far as he's aware, Vergil doesn't want to go anywhere and leave him. That doesn't mean he won't, eventually.

For now, he's here. It's a gift, it's enough, and they're both trying. Give and take, learn to coexist outside the bedroom, Dante teaches himself how to speak, Vergil's mission is to wait and listen before jumping. It's a work in progress because everything in them is fighting back against domestication. Could it be why he was so skittish at the store, actually – that he's grown so accustomed to Dante's presence that he can be startled by him, lets his guard down and as a consequence thinks he's become complacent, not vigilant enough? Must ask him, he's compelled to check if he's got it right by some deep-rooted survival instinct his depressive episodes haven't manage to eliminate. Later.

For now, they're tangled limbs and awakening nerve endings sprawled on the crooked hallway tiles. Dante's inner membranes have swelled by repeated irritation and he's starting to comprehend sensations as aching, somewhat unpleasant. Judging by the groan coming from above him when he clenches himself tight, Vergil is in the same boat. He stirs, lifts his head until he's blinking at Dante through his fallen bangs, bashful. His trademark hair flip reads as a way of asserting dominance when he does it in the middle of a battle, like, _witness how unbothered I am by your pathetic fumbling, you worthless peasants;_ at the moment, he's apparently perplexed by the locks not magically staying in place under humid conditions and kinetic action, doesn't seem collected enough to do anything about it. Plenty of clean sweat and semen on them, but he smells good when he removes the last knots on the mantle, cozy. Dante huffs his scent in, the whiffs converting into a whine as Vergil's dick retreats an inch, two. He clamps down in protest; Vergil answers by sitting up and pulling out of him without pity. Sentimental and busy basking in the afterglow or not, he can't be called mellow.

Mellow? Oh no, the guy's a true sadist, jesus christ. Dante's squirming by reflex as soon as he sees him flash a fang at him in a smug mockery of a grin, and then he's fondling him again, of course he's doing it _now_. Calm as you please, Vergil reaches down and runs a digit on Dante's puffy hole before penetrating him with two bold fingers. They glide in past the second knuckle with ease, no resistance and no drag, yet the very touch, the intent, makes Dante whir and tremble around him uncontrollably while trying his best to hold himself together so as not to leak his seed all over his coat. Vergil draws a lazy circle around the circumference from inside, one slow round on the borders, like he's scrawling a signature on a letter he's just finished composing and is disgustingly proud of it. It's strange that someone whose interest in visual arts is limited to appreciating decorations on swords gets so fascinated by a portrait of soft loose skin, but to be honest, Dante's only complaining due to being overly sensitive. He's doing it now, complains, a tired little whimper traveling through him from his head to his toes, both at the physical feedback and the prospect of Vergil fingering him to the point where a second climax is forced out of him, too overwhelming to be entirely pleasurable. Then the pressure halts. Holding still and wallowing in his poorly concealed curiosity, his brother presses against the inner edge of his rim, unhurried, just stimulating the quivering muscles till they adapt to him again and close around the hand petting them. All the time in the world for the two of them to stay like this, intertwined in their mutual avarice, shared breath, common doting rivalry. When the intrusion withdraws seconds, hours or decades later, Dante is too relaxed to prevent his insides from pooling out into a puddle on the coattails. Doesn't seem to chafe either of them any.

"I'm not cleaning this," he informs his twin regardless. The culprit in turn merely bats his words away with his lashes as if they're delivered in foreign language and he's just a sleepy pet dozing in his lap. The haze is really starting to dissipate. Dante's physique is no longer floating around ground level, and it's soggy and generally gross, needs a good washing.

First things first. "Okay, this is where you get talking. Say it with me: 'this is the last time I'll ask to borrow something of yours, Dante'."

"When have I ever asked to borrow a thing?" Vergil replies absent-mindedly. When Dante makes a spectacle of deflating, he continues, brushing his lower stomach with the flats of his palms for emphasis: "If you are disappointed with the results, I could always stop having my way with you on the floor."

Dante slaps the grubby hands away – enough groping for the time being. Vergil smiles a wane smile, begins to groom his hair back into its usual orderly state. He fluffs it up a bit to get the parts that are have been flattened against his skull loose; the ends, on the other hand, are curling up with the salt and the inexplicable changes in the texture until he neatens them by force, as if Mundus the angel maker had decided to give him unruly hair to spite him. Seeing him push it back puts a flutter in Dante's guts, butterflies, fire. It also reminds him of how the asshole did it to him just when he was about to finish, framing his face with his mop and making his lover an image of himself. Frankly, the level of egotism required to bust a nut to the thought of coupling with yourself wouldn't be out of place with them, but it's not what Dante suspects to have happened there.

Nevertheless, seems like something they ought to acknowledge, he thinks as he observes his sibling reclining next to him. If his hunch is even remotely correct, he's on the trail to something that's worth approaching. Given that it's Vergil's superpower to take his lousy jibes in stride and he's out of cleverness, he makes use of the low-hanging branch. "I'd tell you to go fuck yourself, but should I? Sort of loses its impact if it's what you actually fantasize about."

"Since it makes up around two thirds of your vocabulary, it would, for all intents and purposes, lead to you not being allowed to speak anymore. I wouldn't wish to stop you from expressing yourself," Vergil deadpans. After a beat, he raises his hand and puts it down almost instantly, a rare example of him wasting energy to fidget. Then he turns to his side, facing his questioning silence with the faintest of frowns.

"I apologize. I did not mean to imply anything by i–."

"Nah, it's alright, I'm just ribbing you," Dante interrupts him before he can get any further. "It's obvious you're into my looks and I'm not offended if you think you're hot shit too, you should. Kinda takes a narc to hook up with your own twin anyway, yeah?"

"Well, as long as you admit fault as well." Again, Dante gets the impression he's trying to get something off his chest but keeps running into a mental wall he's built for himself. While his attempts at honesty have more often than not spelled out trouble for them, right now the uncommon doesn't feel unwelcome. Dante inclines his head away from him, plugs into an old tune, lets him take his time. _Bless me with the / Leaf off of the tree, / On it I see / The freedom reign_. There's a clock ticking somewhere, in another galaxy.

Ultimately, the tactic bears fruit.

"Do you remember when Mother started to dress us in different outfits?"

Dante's mind conjures up an image. Winter, age five or six. Vergil in a forest clearing, breadcrumb lines on the drift, drawn by his feet, frantic disorderly steps Dante followed from the mansion into the wild unknown with fear beating inside his throat, but when the wind covered his tracks, he was still loud enough to be found. Angry red of frost burning below his eyes, their whites and blues gleaming as he kept hitting the trunk of a snow-clad tree with an elbow until a cloud of ice was unleashed on them; Vergil, shivering against his chest as he hugged him but not cold. You don't forget a scene like that, no.

"Sure do. You threw a fit when she told us about it, storming off in the woods after telling her you'd never change out of the outfit you were wearing then. Took me a long-ass while to find you and a longer still to calm you down."

"I did, didn't I," Vergil hums. "While I was happy I would get to choose my own colors and get rid of the ruffles she had taken a strange liking to – you remember, we detested them –, I had suddenly lost my footing. Panicked. Felt threatened by the changes."

"I gathered that much. But Mom's not to blame for what we are today and your ancient hissy fit doesn't explain why you feel the need to swipe my clothes in the here and now. Wouldn't mind if you gave me something to work with, even a lame poetry quote."

Next to him, Vergil inclines his shoulders with deliberate nonchalance. " _Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee_?"

Forever unhelpful even when he's playing along, is he. Dante keeps poking: "Since when do you cite anything that hasn't been chiseled in stone tablets in languages nobody who's not a pretentious know-it-all understands anymore? I thought V was just a clever disguise with his English rhymes."

There's another lazy shrug, code for "Forgive me for assuming you would bother to remember anything important. I will make sure not to overestimate you in the future". Once Vergil breaks into speech for the second time, the fragments of memories swirling inside Dante's skull find their correct places. Ah. One of Mom's tales, he should have known.

" _Tyger Tyger burning bright,_

_In the forests of the night:_

_What immortal hand or eye,_

_Dare frame thy fearful symmetry_?" The final word is delivered with particular assertiveness, but Vergil's not truly offended, just trying to get his point across. Dante hears him loud and clear, his stuffy nasal droning that uncoils somewhat when he speaks in words he can cower behind, that don't belong to him. His _Dantes_ and _I love yous_ sound the same, easy, devoted without being scarily intense, for the opposite reasons; they are his and he's fought tooth and nail for the privilege of their ownership. What's Dante to do with that? What's Vergil getting out of their fling, his emotionally stunted reciprocation?

"Oh, it's that poem," he says, winded. "I spent years writing the word wrong because of it, you know: 'tiger' with the letter Y. Lady mocked me when she noticed, and it's hard to overstate how few damns she usually gives about the art of orthography."

"Hmm." Vergil sounds non-committal, but he studies Dante with a heavy-lidded gaze that's sharper than most blades he's been dissected with. A toe moves towards him, skims his ankle, up and down. Encouragement. Put the pieces together. _Use your words_.

"Are you saying you like dressing in my clothes because you think it gets us closer to being identical again, Vergil?"

"No. Explicitly, what I am saying is that like tigers, I know when to prioritize. Why buy new apparel when what you already have is more than sufficient? Taming a barbaric, stubborn demon into sharing his possessions takes less effort than acquiring my own. I like efficiency."

"And implicitly?" Dante asks, deliberately casual.

"That you, sometimes, rarely, have the right idea about things. Please do not let it go to your head."

"Too late, your worship has spoiled me a long time ago already. Just – I get it, I think, but we could've probably avoided all this hassle. Why didn't you say anything?"

"A miscalculation. Why state the obvious?"

"Yeah." Why indeed. _I am in love with you and want to be with you till I die even when I can't forget the damage you've caused. I am sorry we are this messed up._ Then again, assumptions have carried them here. Old habits aren't without merit.

"A tiger cannot escape its stripes any more than we can," Vergil, reading his mind or his expression, agrees and lets them fall into quietude, the ceiling above like a starry sky from forty years ago with its damp patches. If you squint, there they are even now, the Gemini.

Tigers, huh. Not a bad simile. Savage primal instincts, check. Noncompromising independence too, dynamic strength that demands respect, the intelligence of a hunter who knows when to save effort and hide in ambush and when to strike with all he's got, overcoming obstacles by sheer willpower and deadly devastating bravery. Underneath the teeth, steel and snark, honest unguarded quiet trust and loyalty offered to him on a leash.

Polarities everywhere, over and over again. The problems they have are opposite, the underlying causes selfsame. While the lack of corresponding features has made reminiscence bitter for Dante, Vergil apparently soothes himself by drawing new parallels to make up for the discrepancies they weren't born with or haven't gotten used to yet, and he's really been thinking he's been _helping_ Dante by sharing, must have been confused when he could not make things improve, fix him, _why isn't this working_. Laid out in these terms, the issue is simple and distinct, yet bad communication has managed to muddle it in other woes. Dante does get what Vergil's going through, has experienced it too. He's looked at himself in the mirror and been somebody else, perhaps not with mangled breastplates and horns growing from his temples, but with similar lack of recognition. Seen it in himself and in his brother, the _what has been_ and _was_ in stark contrast to _what is_ and _remains_. Loss of duality, the death of an identity.

It shouldn't even matter. Vergil calls himself his, in his clothing and without it, in spite of looking less like him day in and day out and whether or not anyone else can still tell they're of blood. Dante should remind himself of it more often, allow himself to believe in the bond they've forged between them and paid for dearly. Names hold power but it doesn't have to be named, they don't have to be _boyfriends_ , husbands, or stake their territory in order to have something of their own, the privacy of their bodies is enough and more than he's ever had. Useless to pine for lasting bruises and hickeys and resent their healing factor for taking yet another thing from them: branding an item your does not proper ownership make, they learned this as kids. His fixation on marriage and crap is just that, him being hung up on Eva's fairytales, and besides, you can't propose a person if you're so afraid of losing him, the cosmos striking him down on the spot, that you can't even spit out a single emotional declaration at his feet. Their cordiality – the fact that Vergil did not want to kill him on top of the Mallet–Qliphoth–Temen-ni-gru – is miraculous beyond comprehension as is, and however crippled the rapport is by decades of personal baggage and centuries of inherited bad karma, they limp on, striving for an equilibrium. When Dante reaches for him, he closes his eyes, lets him trace his lost words on his abdomen, confessions on his fingertips and on his navel. Invisible stripes.

More than anything, he wants to love Vergil back. It feels difficult to tell if it is what he's doing when the way he's loved him for so long is so different, one-sided edges splitting him into something that has no corresponding counterparts. He deserves someone that could, yet he's happy to be stuck with _this_ , and it's unfair and Dante's overwhelmingly, painfully happy he's settled for inadequacy.

"Not all twins are identical," he says, again in a low tone. Vergil hears him anyway: when he tilts his head towards him, he sees his sibling silent, half lidded and serene, staring at the roof with a light smirk that's turned a touch sadder again. It's a picture of loss, what it looks like for someone so jaded and disillusioned.

"No," Vergil acknowledges the cheap consolation, closing his eyes for a second again and opening them to look at Dante, his previous expression swept away into the usual blankness. "But we are. I have trouble remembering that sometimes."

The conviction in him makes Dante's thoughts grind to a halt. What can you reply to that? Opposites: one half believes in nothing because he can't bear to be let down by anything, the other puts his truths on a pedestal and is willing to tear himself to pieces on their altar at the slightest provocation. Maybe they can catch up in the middle someday with this too, do the same thing with mental stuff that they've managed to accomplish physically, chat about emotions and shit as smoothly as they join under the covers. Maybe they drift further apart only to find themselves alone, yet another life staining their conscience. For the time being, there's one tired notion to cling to: happy endings mean that things are ending. The forever is ephemeral, less final in its uncertainty. Perhaps he stands to gain more by taking a risk, taking the giant hellcat by its tail, and trusting in their ability to get there. He who rides a tiger is afraid to dismount, anyhow.

There aren't any easy answers to the dilemma. It's a binary of a win and a loss, share or don't share, not much room for bargaining. Dante knows, doesn't get it but knows, Vergil will concede if he's told the way he grieves is detrimental to him. Vergil loves him and considers him precious, of course he'd compromise on his own comfort. Problem is, is Dante willing to deprive him of it? Not sure. The reason behind Vergil's changed appearance is a can of worms they need to unpack together if they wish to reach the goal as well, and so's the fact Dante is no less likely to relapse into his old patterns at first hint of trouble than he was a month or a fortnight ago. The time is not today, though.

"C'mon, get up before you get so sappy we end up in diabetic shock. Let's go take a shower, I have my own jizz up to my armpit somehow and your spunk drying on my skin is far less sexy than it sounds like."

"In a minute."

Sixty seconds pass. Vergil makes no sign of going anywhere, not even when Dante gives in to his childish side and jabs him in the ribs.

"By any chance, mi frater, are you going to do this every time I wear your stupid jacket now? 'Cause someone really has to clean it and that's still not going to be me."

"Are you planning to make it a habit?" Vergil counters.

"I haven't really, uh, planned that far ahead," he admits.

"Ah. I do not know what I expected."

And so they've run out of words and reached a nice bilateral checkmate where every subsequent move would likely lead them back to danger zone. Best to lay down the arms and proclaim a ceasefire, enjoy the common ground they've bled for. Dante helps Vergil on his feet, holds his hand in his longer than necessary. His brother makes a point of ignoring it, squeezes him lightly, but when he leans against his ear and murmurs _You will buy me a new plant as well, I know you slaughtered the previous one_ , it's obvious that their balance has shifted again. Vergil the fencer is keeping score: a difficult concession made by him has to be offset by Dante giving in in turn. Isn't always a bad thing; some clothes you grow out of, some you will grow into. What matters is daring to aspire to better heights, or something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy hell, a finished multi-chaptered story.
> 
> Notes, then. Today's Blake is naturally called "The Tyger" – it's also where the name of the story (and the chapters) comes from. The Russian painter I was thinking of while typing this is Mikhail Vrubel, whose pieces are pretty good for DMC inspo.
> 
> Tibullus, mentioned way back in chapter 1, is a Roman elegist often known for his sex poems, featuring bondage and homosexuality, and Vergil certainly isn't bringing him up on purpose. The talk about proposals refers to "A Modest Proposal For preventing the Children of Poor People From being a Burthen to Their Parents or Country, and For making them Beneficial to the Publick", a famous satire written by Jonathan Swift. "Lasciate ogni speranza, voi ch'entrate" is of course a Dante Alighieri quote. There are also too many fencing terms to list by the courtesy of [ Wikipedia](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Glossary_of_fencing).


End file.
